Waterboy Who Lived
by OrangeScript
Summary: "The youngest person ever to do a bloody Wronski Feint and live!" She threw up her hands. "Over a hundred witnesses! A toddler! They call him the 'Boy-Who-Lived.' Say, what did you say your name was again?" Harry felt like the lid had been blown off his world. "Dursley," He lied. "Harry Dursley." ...The Quidditch AU you didn't know you needed ft. waterboy!Harry & bamf!seeker!Harry
1. Hanky Panky aka The Origin Story

**A/N: Heck yes it's the Quidditch AU nobody asked for! This chapter is mostly set up and backstory, but I swear we'll be seeing some action real soon.**

 **All the disclaimers!**

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Harry had methodically worked through the assorted detritus and debris associated with the bunks and living areas of thirty-nine Quidditch trainees, but when he caught sight of the last bunk, bunk #40 on the far wall, he had to put down his trash-bag and wand, lean against bunk #39, and groan.

Apparently "water boy" had a lot of meanings. Far from just sitting at the sidelines and providing the players with water at practices and games, as Harry had imagined he'd be doing when he'd agreed to the job, he and the others had a variety of tasks. Everything from broom and ball maintenance, to delivering messages, running errands for the coaches and managers, serving as punching bags to the beaters, and even cleaning the barracks where the prospective players stayed during the four-month Harpies training boot camp, was apparently fair game to ask of the "water boys."

It was this last task that Harry was currently engaged in, having been the first to lose a game of exploding snap to the other four boys and therefore saddled with what they had collectively agreed was the least desirable task. Harry didn't mind it all that much, though. He was used to this kind of work from the Dursleys; and the girls—with a few notable exceptions—were relatively neat.

The owner of the particular bunk that was the cause of Harry's current consternation—one "Ginevra Weasley" according to the name emblazoned on the scarlet jersey thrown carelessly over the bed— was one of the notable exceptions. Her corner was a veritable pig sty.

Harry wrinkled his nose in distaste. Was that an _apple core_ under the pillowcase? He tentatively reached out to pick it up by the stem with two fingers, when something furry, pink, and definitely _alive_ scurried out from under the pillow. Harry yelped and scrambled back, startled, and soundly banged the back of his head against the metal bed-frame behind him.

He yelped again, this time in pain, and barely had time to pray that the barracks were deserted and no one had seen that when an undisguised snort to his left immediately crushed his hopes. A pair of tanned, freckled hands gathered up the little ball of pink fluff from the bedspread as their owner laughed freely at him.

His face on fire, Harry deliberately did not turn to face the newcomer, instead dropping the apple core in his trash bag, and then bending to pick warily through the clothes and wrappers strewn across the floor.

"Oh, you don't have to do that, you can just leave it," the girl said, bending to deposit the fluffy pink animal in a small wire cage underneath the bed and clicking it shut.

Harry hesitated. "Um. It's my job," he explained awkwardly, continuing to sift through the chaos on the floor for trash. It was his job. And, whatever its cons—fluffy rats and messy bunk-beds—it was a job he desperately needed to keep.

He saw a flash of shiny carrot-red hair in his peripheral vision as she straightened and turned to look at him, interestedly. "You're a water boy. Henry, right? I'm Ginny."

Harry stilled, holding a candy wrapper in one hand, not looking at her. He wasn't sure if he was actually allowed to talk to the trainees. The boys had been given strict instructions: Under no circumstances was there to be any "hanky-panky" with the girls. Harry wasn't sure exactly what "hanky-panky" entailed. When he'd asked the other boys they'd all just laughed and jeered at him, giving him a pretty good idea of at least one type of interaction that was covered under "hanky-panky." But how much interaction, exactly, did it encompass? Did flirting count? Harry didn't really know how to flirt, but one time at the supermarket a few years ago he'd politely asked a lady what time it was and she had told Aunt Petunia that he'd been flirting with her, and Aunt Petunia had made him apologize and then dragged him home and into his cupboard by his ear.

But this girl _had_ initiated the conversation. Surely if he answered it wouldn't be flirting? Surely a conversation, initiated by her, was allowed. He had to be allowed to talk to people, right? Then again, the Dursleys hadn't exactly encouraged conversation when he did chores around the house…or ever really.

Making up his mind, he turned to face her, then blinked, his face rapidly regaining the flush he'd just managed to lose as he cringed away from her expectant expression. He ran a nervous hand through his hair, automatically trying to flatten it— _smooth, Harry, real smooth_ —because well _crap_ , she was kind of pretty.

"Helloooo, Earth to Henry!" She called, sounding amused.

"Er," Harry tried, cringing mentally at how stupid he was acting, "It's Harry, actually."

She brightened immediately. "Harry, you say? I love that name!" And then she grabbed his wrist—her grip was surprisingly strong—and dragged a wide-eyed, spluttering Harry towards her bed. Harry stumbled after her, hearing Gwenog Jones's stern voice repeating over and over in his head " _No hanky-panky!_ "

Harry wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed when Ginny dropped his hand and hopped on her bed, hastily tossing a pile of laundry and junk out of the way, and gesturing for him to look at something she apparently had pinned up on the now newly visible wall.

He bent over to look, craning his neck so that he didn't have to brace himself on her bed. It was a large, glossy poster, depicting two grinning Quidditch players. A tall woman with dark red hair beamed up at him in keeper's pads and Ballycastle black and red, alternately cooing down at a bundle in her arms and throwing her head back in laughter. Beside her, a bespectacled man in a yellow Wasps jersey had a broom slung around his shoulders and an arm slung around the woman. He wasn't looking at the camera at all, instead his head was slightly bent. He appeared to whisper something in his companion's ear, and afterwards looked decidedly pleased with himself when she laughed.

Harry watched the two animations interact, and inexplicably, felt an odd sort of upwelling of emotion in his throat. He coughed, tearing his eyes away from the laughing Quidditch couple, and turned to the girl next to him. "What am I looking at?"

"You don't know?" She asked, her eyes wide, looking almost offended; "That there is Quidditch royalty." She reached out to the poster almost reverently, and stroked the bundle in the woman's arms with a single finger.

Harry peered at it closely, and saw the small slightly chubby face of an infant. As he watched, feeling vaguely unsettled for no apparent reason, a pair of electric green eyes blinked sleepily up at him from the glossy paper. "What, the baby?" he asked, perplexed. He'd figured the two adults, both obviously professional Quidditch players, were the main draw of the poster.

"Yes," Ginny said slowly, as if he were stupid. "That's Lily Evans," she indicated the laughing woman, "she was recruited right out of Hogwarts, starting Keeper for the Ballycastle Bats for five years. She's twenty-two in this picture, but she had the highest saving average in the League. She played five games in her final season, and in those five games not a single point was scored on her. She saved every shot! Some figured if she hadn't had to take time off to have the baby, she would've been the first keeper in the League to finish a season with a 100% saving percentage."

She looked at him seriously, as if to ensure that he was listening, then pointed to the man: "That's James Potter."

Harry jolted, his brain suddenly frozen, and Ginny looked back and nodded in approval at his wide eyes, "Ah, so _him_ you've heard of. That's good. At least you're not hopeless."

And then she launched into a list of James Potter's Quidditch achievements. Apparently he had played left-wing chaser, the position that Ginny herself played, but as she rattled off statistics and names of plays and maneuvers, Harry was not really listening. His mind was racing.

Lily _Evans_. His mum's name had been Lily. He didn't know what Aunt Petunia's maiden name was, he'd never thought to ask. It'd never occurred to him that that would've been his mother's name as well! He supposed that he'd always simply thought of her as Lily _Potter._ But- but- _James Potter_. There was no mistaking that. That was his father's name. He felt his palms go clammy. Crazy as it was, he'd never actually seen a picture of his parents, together. Petunia had a couple photos of Lily and her together, but the most recent was one of the two girls at about age eleven. And he'd never seen a photo of his father.

Harry's eyes went once more to the photo. But…that would mean that the baby in the picture was—

"Harry Potter!" Ginny announced.

Harry flinched, but she was pointing at the infant on the poster, not at him.

"It's why I like the name Harry. Isn't he perfect?"

Harry flushed, knowing that she wasn't talking about _him_ , not really, but feeling flustered all the same.

"He's famous, you know, this kid. The Chosen One."

Harry started. Famous? That was news to him. Vaguely he wondered if this was someone's idea of a funny joke, convincing the naiive orphan that he and his dead parents were famous. Was this one of those prank shows Uncle Vernon liked to watch? They literally could've even used any old picture, Harry reflected, because pathetically enough, he had no clue what his parents had actually looked like.

But something in Ginny's earnest face, and in the aching familiarity of the people on the poster, made him trust her. He found himself leaning in to examine the picture again, intrigued, despite himself. "Because of his parents?" He asked, "Because he's the son of two great Quidditch players?"

"That's part of it," Ginny said seriously. "But not all of it. As if being the offspring of two of the world's most incredible Quidditch players weren't enough." She traced the laughing face of Lily Evans, sadly, her gaze turning distant. "When Harry was one, something terrible happened."

Harry felt all the blood drain from his face. "What happened?" He whispered. Aunt Petunia had never told him anything about how his parents had died, only that there had been a car accident.

"In the late seventies up 'til 1981, that's the year it happened, there was this huge string of high profile murders—celebrities, politicians, athletes— by this psychopathic serial killer and his criminal gang."

Harry didn't breathe as we waited for Ginny to continue.

"I was just a baby so I don't know what it was like or anything, but Mum tells me it was horrible. Everyone was terrified. Law enforcement had no clue who was doing them and no one knew who would be next. Dad was pretty high up in the administration at the time and Mum was terrified they'd come after him or one of my brothers, so Dad had to leave his job at the ministry. He confessed to me that at one point he was sure they'd never be caught, that the murders would just…continue." Ginny shuddered visibly.

"Anyway, the keeper on the English national team got injured, so Evans was flagged as a last-minute replacement," Ginny explained. "It takes at least a week to get a portkey authorized, and she was needed right away, so they decided to take a private aeroplane—that's like a flying muggle contraption. So Evans, Potter, and baby Harry traveled by aeroplane with their friend Peter Pettigrew, an auror, for protection. Albus Dumbledore—you do know who _he_ is, right? Right—well, after they'd already departed, he got an anonymous tip or something saying that Evans and Potter were going to be the next ones targeted."

Harry's blood ran cold. He stared intently at Ginny.

"He rushed to find them," she said sadly, "but it was too late. Pettigrew had been in cahoots with the Death Eaters—that's what they called themselves, the criminal gang—all along. He was their inside man in the auror department, and he led Evans and Potter straight into an ambush, midair!"

She leaned forward, her brows knit in consternation, and Harry unconsciously mirrored her, thoroughly engrossed.

"James told Lily to take Harry with her and escape on her broom while he tried to hold them off, but the broom was in the back, with the luggage. Lily ran to the back with the baby to get her broom, but before she could get on it, she was blasted back. It was Tom Riddle, the leader of the Death Eaters. James had been killed, and Riddle had come to finish her off as well."

Harry, having long since forgotten his resolution not to touch her bed, was white-knuckled, clenching her bed frame in a death grip.

Ginny looked at him, noticing his obvious distress. She put a freckled hand over one of his fists and squeezed sympathetically. "I'm sorry, I know it's awful," she grimaced. "I can stop if you want."

" _No_ ," Harry ground out with no little difficulty. "No, I'm okay, what happened next?"

Ginny scrutinized him for a moment, and then nodded, patting his hand before removing her own. "So Lily," Ginny continued, "she put Harry on the broom and drew her wand to duel; I guess she'd hoped she'd be able to win and then get on the broom behind Harry, but the rest of the gang quickly joined their master and she was outnumbered."

Harry gripped the bedframe tightly, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Just before she was hit by the Killing Curse, she managed to shove the broom out the window," Ginny said, her voice suddenly much quieter, "And Harry went soaring away. At first the broom must've shot straight out, away from the wreckage of the aeroplane, but I s'pose it must've encountered rough winds and, with no one to properly steer it, the broom went hurtling downwards."

Harry felt his mouth drop. He stared, open-mouthed, at Ginny, but she plowed ahead. "There were hundreds of witnesses, they even caught it on tape in the back of a Muggle broadcast: Harry Potter, a _toddler_ , falling from the sky, plummeting towards the earth at an unthinkable speed! The broom was falling rapidly, and no one had the sense to do anything but gape, it was all happening so fast, but before he could hit the ground, suddenly he'd jerked the broom sharply upwards, just barely missing his death!"

She looked at Harry intently as if to check that he had properly absorbed the magnitude of what she was saying. " _He executed a perfect Wronski feint!"_ She cried, throwing up her hands. "A toddler! Rubeus Hagrid—he works at my school, he was there—he said that _he_ just about had a heart attack, but Harry was just sitting happily on his broom, _hovering_ , none the worse for wear! The youngest person ever to do a Wronski Feint and _live_ to tell the tale—you understand, people have _died_ from botched Wronski Feints—and all he had to show for it was a cut on his forehead! A cut—though I reckon it scarred—in the shape of a lightning bolt, from where a twig from the broom flew off and cut him as he fell. They call him The-Boy-Who-Lived."

"What happened," Harry whispered, absolutely transfixed. "What happened to the killers?"

"Albus Dumbledore and the Head Auror, a bloke named Mad-eye Moody, arrived on the scene with reinforcements before the ambushers had the chance to depart, and they were able to apprehend all of them. Pettigrew was killed in the duel with the aurors, and Tom Riddle, the leader, was apprehended by Dumbledore himself, and then Kissed by the dementors in Azkaban later that same month. Dumbledore's anonymous source also apparently tipped the aurors off again, leading them straight to the Death Eaters' hideout. They were all rounded up and carted off to Azkaban."

"And what happened to… to the kid?"

Ginny's eyes were far away. "No one knows." And then she snapped her gaze back to Harry, her eyes keen. "By the way, what was your full name again?"

"Dursley," Harry said quickly, the name rolling awkwardly off his tongue. "Harry Dursley."

Ginny scrunched up her nose exaggeratedly. "Pity," she sighed. "Imagine how amazing it'd be if I'd just accidentally discovered the lost—"

"WEASLEY!" A voice bellowed from the doorway. Harry straightened immediately, narrowly avoiding banging his head again in his haste to put as much distance between himself and Ginny as possible— "ENOUGH LOLLYGAGGING!"

"Coming!" Ginny called, hopping off her bed and digging a lone arm guard out of the disaster on the floor.

She struggled to strap it on her left forearm one-handedly, and before he knew what he was doing Harry stepped forward to hold her arm, saying "Here, let me."

She appraised him under critical eyebrows as he laced and strapped up the bracer expertly, his face heating up under her gaze. "Do you play?" she asked.

"Some," he admitted.

"What pos—"

"WEASLEY!"

"Coming!" Ginny shouted again. She hurriedly nodded her thanks to Harry, tugging her arm gently back. As she jogged away, she called back over her shoulder, gesturing with her chin to the chaos he still stood, knee-deep in— "Don't bother with the mess, you hear me?"

Harry just nodded back dumbly, watching her go, feeling as if the lid had just been blasted off his world.

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 **As always, would love to hear from you! ~OrangeScript**


	2. Nightflight aka Hestius are doing it

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, fav'd, or followed! Y'all are the best. :)**

 **With much love, here's chapter 2!**

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When Harry finally returned to the boys' lodgings—after not quite having been able to resist tidying Ginny's floor up a little—the sky had already begun to darken. He pushed open the door to the small shared room, fully expecting to be greeted by a loud noise of some sort and four grinning faces. Instead, he was surprised to note only silence and the presence of a lone figure, hunched on the cot next to Harry's and squinting hard at a half-played chessboard.

Harry moved into the room and slumped down tiredly onto his own cot, before rolling his head over to look at his roommate. "Is that still the game with Neville from this morning?"

Ron's head jerked upright as he started, nearly tipping over the chessboard balanced on his lap. "Blimey, Harry, I didn't hear you come in," he complained. "I swear you could be an assassin with how quietly you move."

Harry grinned at the chessboard. "Looks like Neville's got you stumped. How'd that happen?"

Ron frowned at him distractedly, then looked down at the chessboard. "Oh, no, I won that game. I'm playing myself."

"Ah, who's winning?"

Ron went back to studying the chessboard carefully. "Black, I think. But white might be able to take back the game."

Harry nodded, sinking his head back down onto his pillow. "I'm surprised the others aren't back yet," he commented.

"Oh, everyone's gone out to get food," Ron answered, eyes fixed on his chessboard. "I said I'd wait for you."

"Oh," Harry said, feeling oddly touched. "Thanks."

Ron grunted, eyes still glued to the chessboard, gesturing absently to a discarded quill and some parchment. "It's fine, I had to write people anyway."

"So, what'd you have today?" Harry asked.

At this, Ron finally did look up, grimacing. "Target practice for the beaters." He rolled up one of his sleeves to show Harry an ugly bruise blooming on his upper arm. "This isn't even the only one!" He complained. "I tell you, those girls may be tiny, but they're vicious!"

Harry grinned at the tirade. "At least you got to fly." He pointed out.

Ron shrugged. "I s'pose. How was cleaning the barracks? I heard Seamus ditched you."

"Yeah, apparently Dean needed a hand with re-painting the goal posts. It was fine, I guess."

Ron nodded, then resumed studying his chessboard. Harry tipped his chin back and stared at the ceiling, thinking. It was quiet for several moments.

"Ron," he said suddenly, "what do you know about a Harry Potter?"

"'The Boy Who Lived?'" Ron asked, glancing up in surprise. "You haven't heard of him?" Then, before Harry could answer, "Oh, Muggle-born, right, sorry." He settled back against the wall. "My sister's _mad_ about him. No one's heard from him in ages, though; he sort of vanished from the planet, like fifteen or so years ago? Everyone's gone crazy looking for him, all the papers, the Quidditch fans. I've a muggle friend named Harry— my first year in Hogwarts I was _convinced_ it was him in hiding, so I tried to hint about it real subtle-like, but no, he's definitely a muggle. And you're named Harry, too! I s'pose it's a common name among muggles? Anyway, supposedly he's the youngest person ever to have done a Wronski Feint."

"Supposedly?"

Ron waved a hand absently. "I mean, it definitely happened; there's witnesses and all. I just figure it was a combination of adrenaline and maybe some accidental magic," He paused, "not to mention excellent Quidditch genes. Have you heard of his mum? Evans," he sighed. "Outstanding Keeper. Her signature move got me on the Gryffindor team fifth year— I wouldn't've saved that last shot otherwise. Brilliant, she was."

Harry kept his eyes firmly fixed on the ceiling, feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

"James Potter was amazing too," Ron continued. "It's awful, what happened," He turned to Harry. "Oh right, sorry; his parents, both of them—"

"It's okay, I heard the story," Harry said hastily, not eager to hear it again. "One of the girls, Ginny, told me earlier."

Ron frowned, "Ginny—"

Just then the door opened, and a beaming Dean Thomas stepped in, proudly bearing two pizza boxes. "Weasley?" He asked interestedly, plopping down on Harry's cot. "Damn that girl is fit. I was painting the hoops today while they were out practicing and she flew by, _ouch_ —!" He winced as a wooden pawn connected with his skull.

"Oi! That's my little sister you're talking about!" Ron was glaring angrily, threateningly brandishing two more fistfuls of chess pieces. "Watch your mouth!"

"Ginny's your sister?" Harry asked, surprised.

"Yeah," Ron said, pointing at his head, looking bewildered. "Red hair, freckles, same last name? You guys seriously didn't realize?"

"Sorry, sorry, mate, I didn't know," Dean raised his hands in surrender. "But seriously though, would you mind if—"

Harry watched amusedly as Ron's murderous glare and whatever ill-advised entreaty Dean had been about to make were cut off by the entrance of Neville and Seamus, the former lugging a six-pack of butterbeer and the latter proudly bearing four bottles of firewhiskey.

"Tonight we feast!" Seamus yelled, shaking a bottle in the air, and then launching himself at Dean, play-tackling him. The two crashed to the ground.

Harry rolled out of the way and salvaged the pizzas from a struggling Dean, grinning at Neville. "How much has he had to drink already?"

"Too much," Neville gave a long-suffering sigh. "Hello Harry," He greeted, closing the door and stepping around the cackling pile of Seamus and Dean. He took in Ron's fists full of chess-pieces. "Whatcha got there, Ron?" He asked wryly.

"Dean was mouthing off about his sister," Harry explained, lifting a glorious slice of greasy cheese pizza out of the box. "Ron, here, have you tried pizza before? It's a muggle food; it's delicious."

Ron relinquished the handfuls of chess pieces and looked over, his face visibly brightening at the prospect of food. Harry obligingly handed the box over, laughing as Seamus managed to grab hold of Neville's ankle, unbalancing him and dragging him into the impromptu drunken brawl on the floor.

…

Later, when all the other boys were sprawled and snoring in various positions across the floor and on the cots, Harry retrieved the old broom from under his own cot, quietly picked his way across the room, and slipped outside into the breezy night air.

Once he'd eased the door closed as gently as he could, he paused and pressed his ear to the wood, scrunching up his bare toes in the cool grass. Hearing nothing but the coarse vibrato of loud, drunken snoring, he hefted the broom over one shoulder and took off. He tore across the field, arms pumping, lungs burning, just his bare feet on the grass and the wind in his face—his heart felt lighter already—and then he swung the broom under him and he really was flying, soaring—and suddenly he was lighter than air.

He bent forward, just about pressing his cheek to the aging wood handle, willing the sputtering broomstick faster and faster. The world whizzed past him as he cut through the air like a blade, still so close to the ground that the twigs of the broom nearly skimmed the uncut grass behind the pitch.

The soaring goal hoops were growing larger and larger in Harry's field of vision, gold and gleaming from their new paint job. Still flattened against the broomstick, he lowered his head entirely, slapping his cheek against the handle and twisting, throwing his weight ever so precisely to the right, and urging the broom upwards.

It obeyed.

He exploded into the sky like a spiraling bullet, a soaring corkscrew dart, hurtling across the moonlit nightscape. And then, at the apex of his flight, a sudden calm overtaking him, Harry released his grip on the handle—his fingers tingling with a delicious danger—and he spread his arms, and he let himself fall.

Backwards, he fell; unadulterated, unmetered freefall; broom and boy and magic-less, mundane gravity. His face rippled with pulsing pinpricks of cold and a rushing numbness and the bite of the night air whooshing past him.

In slow motion, the ground rushed to meet him, but all he felt was exhilarating release; a sort of epiphanic clarity; a mad, silent ecstasy.

Presently, the thought that he would spatter on the ground if he didn't act soon invaded the peace in his mind, and—wryly wondering which of the boys would be forced to clean up the resulting mess should it happen—he reclaimed the beaten broom handle with his hands, and arched and tucked into a tight sort of backwards somersault. The earth grew dangerously closer, dangerously faster, and with a heady, drunken giddiness, he snapped into position, properly reseating the broom so close to too close that he felt the bite of the grass at his ankles as he jetted forwards again with a whoop.

He flew a zig-zag pattern across the pitch, and then, struck with a sudden idea, looped back around to the far left hoop on the home team side, flattened himself against the broom once more, and then tore into the air, signing his name across the sky in grand, flourishing loops and flips and dare-devil drops.

He did belong somewhere— here, in the sky, where everything made sense.

He was Harry Potter, son of James Potter and Lily Evans—The Boy Who Lived.

He flew the curl of the 'Y' in 'Harry' straight up into the sky, and then he pointed the broom downwards and dove, whooping. He had, after all, apparently done this as a toddler.

…

"There's someone out on the pitch."

She hummed in vague agreement, kissing up the cording of his throat. "Mmm," She skimmed his jawline with her nose and licked her lips, inhaling headily. "Yes—What?" He'd become unresponsive in her arms.

"There's someone out on the pitch," he repeated. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, one hand (still gloved!) in her hair and the other (also gloved!) around her waist, but his eyes were riveted to something outside the window.

"No there's not," she huffed, partially extricating herself from him and feeling rather irritated at the interruption. "The girls know that I'd kill them, or Gwen would—" She gasped, cutting off abruptly as she too turned to face the window.

A black shape, silhouetted against the moon and stars, hurtled dangerously towards the ground.

"Merlin! She's going to kill herself!" Hestia shrieked, starting for the door, heedless of her state of undress, but was stopped by her partner's unyielding grip on her waist.

"Wait." He whispered, his eyes fixed on the falling figure.

"What are you doing? We have to get out there!"

"Look," he said softly, and Hestia looked, helplessly, and nearly passed out in shock. Scant meters above the ground, the falling rider tucked backwards, flipped neatly, and was right-side up on the broomstick and speeding away as if nothing had happened before she could even blink.

She gaped at the window in shock. _"Which girl was that?"_ She gasped, when she had finally recovered enough to speak. "Could you see who it was at all? Hair color, jersey number, anything? Merlin, _who_ _was that_? I swear I'll sign her right now!"

And then her companion turned to look at her, and his face was pale as a ghost. "You saw that too, right?" He asked, his voice hardly more than a whisper.

She just stared at him, wide-eyed, and nodded.

And then he had released her entirely and was trying to button up his shirt with shaking hands, his voice cracking. "You—you saw that too? Merlin, I could've sworn it was— it looked just like—"

"Who?" She demanded, pulling the neck of her shirt back up over her shoulder and hastily retying her robe. Maybe if they hurried they could catch whoever it was on the pitch before they escaped. "Who did it look like?"

And then his grey eyes were on hers again, dark and haunted. "James," he whispered. "It looked like James."

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 **A/N: So? What do you think so far? Drop me a review, don't leave me hangin' :)**

 **xoxo ~OS**


	3. Ginny takes the Fall aka Harry's in lurv

The next morning saw Harry and Ron sprawled side by side on the bleachers with a dozen brooms apiece, several ball crates, a bucket of mangled snitches, a can of polish, and a jumbo servicing kit between them.

Harry reverently trimmed the bristles of a Comet 290, the model that had carried the Harpies to the Final Four last year. Beside him, Ron wrestled clumsily with a bludger.

It was a nice day; still early and a bit chilly, but cloudless and sunny—a lovely day to fly. Harry tilted his head back and looked up. Above him fourteen trainees circled the sky on their brooms, looking far less like a well-oiled machine than Harry had ever seen them look.

More than likely this was due to the uncharacteristic absence of Captain Gwenog Jones, who usually led the morning drills. In her place a harried-looking Wilda Griffith, a reserve chaser, had attempted to throw together a relaxed scrimmage, but by hastily assigning players to random positions and then blowing the whistle to start, she'd manage to create something else entirely.

Absently polishing the broomstick handle, Harry watched the rather confused scramble of a game play out across the sky as these talented but rather specialized flyers attempted to play positions other than the ones they'd been training to play for a good portion of their lives.

He easily picked out Ginny by her orange braid as she dive-bombed through the opposing chasers' line-up, causing one of them (an erstwhile beater) to fumble and drop the quaffle, right into the waiting hands of Ginny's teammate. Ginny laughed, the wind whipping her braid as she cheered the steal. She was playing seeker against a small blonde girl who, judging by her gloves and pads, usually played keeper.

Tearing his eye from Ginny, Harry shot a self-conscious look at Ron, but he needn't have worried: the boy next to him had long since dropped all pretenses of work and was instead screaming at the acting keepers, fully engrossed in the game.

Harry turned his gaze back to the match with a grin. Unexpectedly, Ginny looked back and caught his eye, looking surprised for a moment before grinning cheekily at him. She rolled easily out of the way of an incoming bludger, winked, and then zipped away to look for the snitch.

Harry felt his cheeks flush and he couldn't help but track the path of her broom as she zig-zagged across the pitch and between players in a vague search pattern, feinting and dive-bombing every so often to keep the play lively. She really was an excellent flyer, he thought, easily the best on the pitch.

The blonde keeper who was seeking against Ginny was floating wearily above Harry—Ginny's constant diving had no doubt put her off from doggedly tailing her, as she'd done initially— when he saw the telltale flash of gold out of the corner of his eye.

He whipped his head around. The snitch hovered near his ear, buzzing delicately. He gripped the broom he was holding tightly to prevent himself from grabbing for it, but his body lurched for it instinctively, years of practice screaming at him to _go_.

Instead he tracked the pitch. Ginny was several meters away, scanning; she hadn't seen it yet. He looked up; the blonde girl was longingly watching the goal posts; she hadn't seen it either, and she definitely needed his help more than Ginny.

Harry reached up and tapped the broom of the blonde player above him. He was gesturing with his head and eyebrows to the snitch just as Ginny's roving gaze met his, then darted to his right, her mouth parting in shock and outrage as she spotted both the golden ball and his obvious cheating.

Shocked at his own daring, he winked at her.

She flattened herself against her broom determinedly.

The snitch seemed to sense that it had been seen, and just as the blonde player turned confusedly to where Harry was indicating, it zoomed away in a golden blur—but it was enough; she'd seen it too.

Harry hurriedly sat down as the two acting seekers hurled themselves like bullets after the fleeing snitch. Vaguely, he felt someone's fingers—Ron's, probably—digging into his arm, but his eyes were riveted to the two seekers. The other girl had been closer, but Ginny was the better flyer.

The snitch shot across the pitch and the girls sped after it at full throttle, scattering the players at center-field. And then both seekers shot directly upwards, handles to the sky. Harry was at the edge of his seat—Ron's fingernails digging into his shoulder—tracking them with his eyes as they went higher and higher, climbing into the air, each with a hand stretched upwards.

The pitch was silent; gameplay had ceased. Everyone watched them as they strained, strained against weight and gravity, to urge themselves higher, just a bit higher—

One pale hand closed into a fist—he couldn't tell whose yet— and then both girls were spiraling down into the waiting arms of their teammates.

Ron and Harry were frozen in suspense—Ron still gripping Harry for dear life— as the teams messily dismounted. Then Ginny threw her fist in the air and they caught sight of the struggling golden ball in it before her teammates mobbed her, and both boys were instantly on their feet, screaming.

"YES!" Ron bellowed across the field, looking almost close to tears. "THAT'S MY SISTER!" He was still clutching Harry's shoulder, seemingly past the point of caring. "Did you see that catch?" He asked, shaking Harry, his voice breathless. The opposing seeker threw an irritated look their way.

Harry just grinned and nodded to Ron, feeling almost as exhilarated and free as if he'd been the one on the broom making the spectacular catch.

Ginny emerged from the mob, smiling broadly, and threw herself down on the bleachers in front of them. She deposited the feebly-fluttering golden snitch into a joyful Ron's hand, arching a superior eyebrow at Harry.

He scratched his neck sheepishly.

"What's a girl gotta do to get a drink around here, water boys?" A voice demanded from behind Ginny. There was a chorus of agreement, and Harry saw that the fourteen trainees who'd just played, along with a good number of those who'd watched from the opposite bleachers, were crowded expectantly around them.

He rushed to open the cooler behind him, heat flooding his face, and he and Ron tossed the water bottles out to the girls to much jeering and catcalls.

"Settle down, settle down, girls!" Wilda Griffith ordered as she waded through the crowd, looking stressed. In answer the girls dispersed a bit, spreading out on and by the bleachers: Ostensibly they were "stretching," but from what Harry could see, they were mostly just chatting.

For his part, Harry sat down and bent over an open ball crate, fiddling with the straps as he tried to look busy. Ginny promptly plopped down next to him.

"Conspiring against me, were you, Dursley?"

He hid a grin, his head still ducked, and looked up at her through his lashes. Like her brother, she made no effort to maintain an act, blatantly lounging, not even pretending to stretch as she looked at him, eyebrows raised expectantly.

He never found out how he might have answered her, as just as he was about to try his hand at flirting— _hanky-panky be damned_ — three figures burst onto the field.

Instantly the chatter hushed. Beside him, Ginny straightened, and Ron scrambled to look busy. Harry looked up.

Gwenog Jones, easily marked by her powerful stride, he recognized immediately, as well as her older sister and Harpies Coach Hestia Jones, who was one full head of frizzy hair shorter. But the man who trailed their little group, tall and grey-eyed and wearing gloves with his cloak despite the summer air, he couldn't quite place.

Harry studied the elegant man, feeling a vague sense of déjà vu. He nudged Ron. "Who's the bloke?" He asked.

Ron squinted, then gawped. "That's Sirius Black, that is!"

"Who?" Harry asked blankly.

"Sirius Black," Ron said eagerly. "He was a fair beater back in the day. Never really got into his prime—had to retire because of an injury. Now, though, he owns the Wimbledon Wasps."

Harry straightened at the mention of his father's old team. "I wonder what he's doing here," he mused aloud.

Ron shrugged.

"There've been rumors," Ginny said. Both boys turned to look at her. She wagged her eyebrows, pointing her chin significantly at the two women. " 'Bout him and Hestia."

They turned to look at Hestia, and Ron smirked. "Good for him."

Ginny elbowed him sharply.

Gwenog Jones flapped her hand in the air in some sort of hand signal without breaking a stride, and Ginny and the other trainees scrambled to their feet immediately, Ginny shrugging at them over her shoulder as she jogged to join the circle of girls standing at attention.

Harry tried to mind his own business, picking up the polish rag and broom he'd discarded during the match, and nudging a conspicuously gawking Ron to do the same, but Gwenog's voice carried, and he couldn't help but listen in.

"Last night, someone thought it would be good fun to ignore curfew, break into the stadium, and go for a nice little midnight fly." Gwenog's angry voice rang out over the pitch.

Harry froze. The broomstick clattered noisily to the bench below him.

Gwenog twisted in order to fix him with a frown, but then she turned back to the girls. "Unfortunately for the little rebel, however," she growled, "they were spotted. By the time my sister got onto the pitch they'd already gone, but I do happen to have a few tricks up my sleeve." She glared at each girl in turn.

Harry was sweating. He rubbed his palms on his trousers, trying to keep calm, but he was panicking. He needed this job. He needed the money.

"I'm only going to ask this once," Gwenog threatened. "Either the culprit comes forward of their own volition, or all of you pay the price."

Harry looked up, his heart thudding. He would have to confess. And that would be it: his job, his friends, the connection to his lost family… all gone.

By chance, as he looked up, Ginny's eyes met his, as they had been all morning. She quirked a quizzical eyebrow. And then her eyes widened, clearly reading the guilt and panic in his own. And then they went blank.

Before he could say anything, Ginny stepped forward, looking Gwenog Jones right in the eye. "It was me," she said confidently.

Harry gaped.

"Come with me." Gwenog closed a hand around Ginny's upper arm, steering her towards where Hestia Jones and Sirius Black were huddled, whispering to each other.

Harry got to his feet. There was no way he was letting her take the fall for him—

But Ginny turned her head, her messy braid slipping over her shoulder. Her eyes caught his again, and she shook her head urgently.

He stepped down to the next row of bleachers, ready to protest, but she looked at him almost threateningly, shaking her head again, firmly, before turning to face forwards once again. She was escorted off the field by the three adults.

Harry sat down heavily. Had he just gotten her kicked out of the program?

Ron sighed from above him. "Same old Ginny. She always did like to go flying at night."

Harry turned. "Do you think they'll kick her out?"

Ron looked surprised. "Why would they kick her out?"

"I don't know," Harry said, looking at the field where Wilda Griffith was attempting to herd the remaining players into a formation. "She looked pretty angry."

"Nah, they can't kick her out. She's the best flyer in the program!" Ron declared, apparently forgetting all the times he'd complained to Harry about his sister. "Did you _see_ her catch that snitch? And she doesn't even play seeker!"

Ron's confidence made Harry feel slightly better, but he stared at the spot where the three adults had disappeared with Ginny, guilt sitting heavily in his stomach like he'd swallowed a stone.

On another level, though, a part of him that he felt far too guilty already to even acknowledge, he felt kind of touched. He was used to scapegoating for the Dursleys, but no one had ever taken the fall for him like that before.


	4. Tardiness aka Sirius is an SOB

It was nearly lunch-time before Ginny re-emerged.

Harry was pacing restlessly in front of the stadium steps, debating whether or not to go in. They'd been given the rest of the day off, and Ron was long gone— he'd mumbled something about meeting up with a _friend_ , but the way his ears turned bright red as he stumbled over the word told Harry that it was probably more of an— _ah_ , well more of a _hanky-panky_ sort of situation.

…He had probably ought to stop using that word before he had fully investigated its meaning…

But diction be damned, he had more important things to worry about.

Like Ginny getting kicked out. He thought of that blazing look on her face when she'd seen the snitch, and suddenly what he had to do seemed very simple.

He turned, marched up the steps, yanked the door open, and—

"Oof." He collided solidly with someone hurriedly exiting the building, and his glasses flew off his face. The person yelped, startled by his unexpected presence, and jabbed a broom handle sharply into his stomach. Harry stumbled back, and might've lost his balance at the top of the steps, had his assailant not gasped and yanked him forward by two fistfuls of his t-shirt.

Harry spit out a mouthful of strawberry-colored hair and stared directly into the rather blurry brown eyes of Ginny Weasley.

She was looking up at him too, hands still fisted in the fabric of his shirt. She was breathing rather heavily— probably from the clumsy near-death fiasco they'd both just participated in— and he could feel the puffs of air on his chin, and it made him feel heady. He flicked his eyes down to her lips. As if summoned, her tongue darted out quickly to wet her bottom lip, and Harry wondered if that was maybe a sign—

And then abruptly Ginny let go of his t-shirt and was clearing her throat, and Harry took a careful step to the side, staring awkwardly at the hopelessly blurry landscape, until she jammed his glasses back on his face.

The lenses were cracked.

He had barely a second to register this fact before suddenly a wand was in his face, pointing right between his eyes and he had a momentary pang of envy, of all things, before wondering if he should be frightened, and then Ginny said some words and his glasses were instantly fixed.

Better than fixed, actually. Better than they'd been before. Better than new. Every minor dent and tiny splinter in the glass, the weak bridge that he'd reinforced with duct-tape, even the residual schmutz of life he hadn't quite cleaned out of the lenses— all fixed!

He goggled at the clear world, now feeling more than a pang of envy— he'd been living with the sorry state of his glasses for years, just duct-taping and making do, and she'd just rendered it all null and void with a flick of a magic wand and a few words!

He dropped his gaze down to the diminutive witch who was shooting an assessing look up at him. "Uh, thanks," he said, blinking down at her.

She continued to study him, making a small _hmm_ sound in the back of her throat. "You owe me one, right?"

Suddenly his earlier panic returned and all thoughts of magic fled. "Oh shit, did they kick you out?" He asked anxiously. "Listen, I'll go turn myself in right now; I'm so sorry I let you take the fall. I'm sure if I just—"

But Ginny just waved a hand dismissively at his words. She pushed past him to march down the steps.

Harry stared after her, bewildered. "Yes," he said eventually. "Of course. I owe you one. Big time."

She stopped. "Well, c'mon then," she called over her shoulder. She was grinning.

Harry scrambled to catch up, feeling awkward and stupid and grateful and a little nervous. "Well?"

"Well," she said, finally, giving him a side-long, appraising look. "Have you got a broom?"

…

Remus Lupin glanced again at the clock on the far wall, his leg jittering under the table. He retrieved the small, folded-up square of parchment from his pocket, smoothed out the wrinkled surface, and, for what must have been the dozenth time, re-read the note.

 **Remus—**

 **It's been too long, old friend. Drinks?**

 **8, at the Hog's Head.**

 **Yours,**

 **Sirius Orion Black**

He stared at it, again, trembling hands smoothing it out as he greedily drank in the hand-writing. It looked familiar, certainly, though not quite like he remembered. It was slower, more careful, more loopy and rounded than Sirius's scrawl used to be. Less spiky and impatient. Not to mention the signature. Sirius never used to do that, sign his full name— the amount of jokes about his initials, "S.O.B.," that he and James had made—

But time did that, he supposed, though his heart ached to think it had been so many years since he'd last spoken with the sender that such change had been wrought, without his knowledge, to a hand that was once as familiar to him as his own.

He glanced at the clock again. It was fifteen past. Something in his chest sunk. He wasn't coming. He ducked his head to hide his stinging eyes. The gift bag at his feet gaped open, and he stared down into its meager contents, feeling utterly foolish.

When he'd received the letter he'd gone from absolute disbelief to unrestrained joy. It was nearly July, Harry's sixteenth birthday was coming up— he could think of no other reason why Sirius would want to meet now, after all these years, if not to scope out whether Remus was fit to finally meet Harry!

In a fit of excitement, Remus had dashed out to the nearest Quality Quidditch Supply, only to realize that everything in the shop was, for one thing, rather far out of his price range—and for another, probably something Harry had hundreds of already, what with him living with the owner of the Wasps.

To his utter dismay, beyond Quidditch, Remus realized that he hadn't a single clue as to what Harry might like or dislike. He'd carefully set down the buttery leather keeper's gloves he'd been examining. He didn't even know what position Harry played, if he even played at all.

He'd shoved his hands in his pockets, giving the suspicious-looking clerk a wan smile as he exited the shop without purchasing anything, a forlorn, desperate sort of bleakness unfurling in his chest.

It was no match for the tiny seed of hope, though, that had planted itself in his chest at the thought of seeing Harry.

He'd owled Hagrid, and painstakingly combed through his old school things as well to compile a set of several old photographs, some letters, and even a few of James's old Quidditch plays scrawled onto the backs of assignments. Hagrid had contributed two photographs of his own, pasted into a neat little book, as well as a tear-stained hand-written invitation for Harry to come visit him if he wanted, for tea and a home-baked cake.

It wasn't much; in fact, it was probably pathetically sentimental for two grown men, and potentially unappealing to a teenage boy, but if Harry had anything of Lily in him, Remus was sure he'd be gracious about the gift.

Remus had written, hundreds of times—on birthdays, holidays, on awful anniversaries, and often for no reason at all, addressing his letters to both Sirius and Harry.

They'd all returned unopened.

Eventually, he'd gotten the message.

Not that he didn't understand, of course, even if his understanding was tinged with bitterness— they'd already been betrayed by one they'd called family; Sirius wasn't going to risk it again, couldn't risk it again.

Sirius was all over the telly and the papers after the high-profile Wasps acquisition, but though Remus had scoured paper after paper, hungrily looking for just a glimpse of his friends' son, he had been unsuccessful.

The papers had had a field day after James and Lily's deaths, Harry's very public near-death experience making the "Boy-Who-Lived" a worldwide phenomenon, but for all intents and purposes, after defying death and stunning the wizarding world, Harry had all but vanished off the face of the earth.

Sirius was and remained notoriously tight-lipped about his friends' deaths, (though public speculation about his hand injury, sustained around the same time, were rampant), and their son, (Remus was pretty sure that it wasn't public knowledge that Sirius was godfather), and people quickly learned not to risk upsetting him with those kinds of questions after he unceremoniously strode out of several press conferences.

Eventually, the Boy-Who-Lived fever had died down, many suspecting that ministry had had a hand in re-settling the boy in a magical orphanage, or with distant family overseas. There was even a rumor that he was living with muggles, to be raised away from the circus of fame.

Remus knew better, of course.

Like hell Lily and James would let Harry go to an orphanage or some distant relatives overseas when his godfather was alive and well— Like hell _Sirius_ would let Harry out of his sight after what happened to James and Lily!

No, Harry was living with Sirius, somewhere safe and out of the prying eye of the public, perhaps boarding at Beauxbatons— after all every Black spoke French— or maybe Durmstrang, where Sirius's father had gone…

And no, Remus hadn't gotten to see Harry as often as he'd've liked— or, well, at all— but Harry was safe, and loved, and cared for, and that was all that mattered.

And he was going to meet him now, so it was all okay! It was all going to be okay.

Unless Sirius didn't come…

But, just as Remus was entertaining this dismal line of thought, the bell above the door rang, and— as if summoned by Remus's audacity to think he would break an engagement— Sirius Black stepped into the Hog's Head.

He was tall and grey-eyed and powerful in his elegant charcoal robes and gloves, and the bar's chatter died for several seconds as his eyes roved the room before settling on Remus, whose heart had stuttered.

He forced his widest smile as he waved Sirius over, his palms sweating and his grin almost painful on his face.

Sirius said something to a barmaid, and then nodded towards Lupin, not quite giving him a smile— and Remus tried not to let his stomach plummet, because it was okay, they'd work things out, and Sirius'd let him see Harry, he _had_ to.

He picked his way across the crowd with none of the casual elegance that Remus had always associated with him, dropping stiffly into the empty seat.

"I'm glad you could make it," Remus said quietly.

Sirius regarded him carefully, before nodding at him again. "You too," he said awkwardly, and even his _voice_ sounded different.

Remus searched for something to say, drinking in the sight of his friend as Sirius fidgeted in front of him. Eventually, the man produced a flask from his hip and unscrewed the cap, before taking a long swig with a grimace. "Headache potion," he explained to Remus's questioning look, "Long day."

The barmaid arrived, then, with two bottles of Firewhiskey. Sirius put his flask away to blatantly leer at her as she set the bottles down, and then watched her unabashedly as she walked away.

Remus cleared his throat uncomfortably, feeling a lead weight settle in his stomach.

Sirius turned back to him, smirking a little. "Imagine what a pretty picture she'd make on her knees."

Remus blinked. "A-aren't you with Hestia Jones?" He stuttered, because he had no idea how to respond to the crass comment, and it was the first thing that came to mind.

Sirius grinned at him, and it was a thin, condescending smile. "Reading the gossip rags, are you, Moony?"

The use of the nickname jarred him, knocked absolutely off-kilter.

Sirius continued on, oblivious. "Yeah, I s'pose. I always had a thing for her back in school, y'know, but she wouldn't give me the time of day."

"I didn't know that," Remus said quietly. He hadn't, and he'd thought he'd known everything there was to know about Sirius, at least when they were all at Hogwarts… "I mean, I knew that Pete fancied her but—"

Sirius had gone rigid, and Remus could have kicked himself.

"Sorry," he whispered hastily, he was sure the blood had drained from his face. "Sorry, I wasn't thinking—"

"He betrayed us, Remus," Sirius said, his voice monotone. "You know that."

"I know," Remus assured him, frantically. "I know. I just— do you ever wonder why? Maybe, maybe he didn't have a choice—" He had no idea where this was coming from, he knew it couldn't be doing him any favors, and Sirius's face was unreadable. "Maybe, he— I don't know, it's just all so horrible, it's still horrible. It's— it's unthinkable." He took a gulp of his firewhiskey to make himself stop talking.

Sirius was studying him more openly now. "Do you really believe that?" He asked quietly. "That he didn't have a choice?"

Remus closed his clammy hands around the bottle in front of him. "I don't know," he whispered. "I want to. But I don't know."

Something in Sirius's face closed off, but then he leaned forward. "Do you ever think you see them, Remus?" He asked, fingering his own bottle. "James, or Lily?"

"All the time," Remus whispered, his breath coming out in a rush. "At the book store, I'll see a flash of red, or I'll see someone riding a broomstick and I'll—" His voice broke, and he looked up at Sirius, who was watching him intently. "It must be worse for you, with Harry around all the time," he looked away, unable to filter the bitterness out of his tone.

Something in Sirius's eyes shuttered further. He straightened. "Yes," he said casually. "I suppose it is."

Remus supposed it was as good an opening as any. "I'd love to meet him," he pressed fervently, "Harry, that is. I understand why you've been keeping such a low profile for him, but since he's nearly sixteen, I—"

"Ah," Sirius looked distinctly uncomfortable. "I'm— I'm not sure that's a good idea." He leaned back in his chair a bit, and Remus felt his heart sink. Oh. _Oh_.

He felt his face burning, his eyes burning, too, and he thought he might be sick. He forced a smile, and then hastily picked up the gift bag under the table. He thrust it at Sirius. "I, ah, I understand," he said, and _goddamnit_ his voice was shaking, "Um, could you give this to him for me? Just as an early birthday gift?"

Sirius accepted it awkwardly, looking like he might want to say something, but Remus was busy digging in his coat pockets for coins. He pulled out a handful and plonked them on the table.

"Remus—"

"It's okay, Sirius," He managed a quick smile and then brushed past his friend to the fireplaces.

It was only later that night, after a full bottle of mead, that Remus found Hagrid's note to Harry still in his pocket. He didn't have an owl of his own, so he swallowed his pride and flooed back to the Hog's Head, thinking he could use the Hogsmeade owlery.

He was crossing the room to the door when something in the bin caught his eye. He reversed his steps. There. Sitting in the rubbish bin was the shiny green gift bag he'd bought for Harry, unopened, as if Sirius hadn't even bothered to check what Remus had put in there before chucking it.

Numbly, Remus picked the gift bag out of the trash, and rescued the precious bundle of photographs and parchment from inside it. He pocketed them, along with Hagrid's letter, and turned back to the fireplace from where he'd come.

…

"You call that a broom?!" They were back at Harry's dorm, and Ginny was staring at Harry's proffered broom in awe and horror, her hands hovering over it as if she was afraid to touch it. "Dear Merlin, is that a Silver Arrow? I think my _Dad_ had one of these in _school_!"

Harry's face flushed, and he snatched it away from her scrutiny. "Well, it's all I've got." He snapped.

She studied him again, her eyes narrowed, before she shook her head. She turned to survey the messy bunk next to his. "C'mon, I know Ron's got a Cleansweep somewhere— ah, here you go." She ducked to remove a broom from under the bunk and then dumped it unceremoniously in his arms. She looked at him critically. "Well, he's a little taller than you, but that'll have to do. Merlin knows it's better than that pile of twigs you call a broom."

Harry felt a little offended on behalf of his faithful old broom, but one look at Ron's broom told him she was right. Still, he hesitated— "Are you sure Ron won't mind?"

She rolled her eyes. "I'm his sister, it's my job to steal his stuff." She grabbed his wrist. "Are you good to play?"

"What?"

"Do you have to change, or something?" She asked impatiently.

"Uh," he looked down at himself. "I dunno—"

She rolled her eyes again. "Boys," she muttered under her breath, already hauling him towards the door. "Well it doesn't matter. We need to hurry, or we'll be late."

 _If it doesn't matter, then why did she ask?_ Harry wanted to know. But he followed her nonetheless, wondering what exactly, was going on. "Late for what?"

And then she did turn around, gracing him with a full, toothy smile that left him a little dumbstruck. "Ever heard of QuidSwitch, Harry Dursley?"


	5. Weasley for a Day aka Frangelina

QuidSwitch, as it turned out, was essentially just street Quidditch—with a key difference.

"Everyone has to play every position at least once."

"Come again?" Harry asked. "How does that work?" He was looping lazily on the Cleansweep, experimenting with the faster acceleration and the smoother turns. It had taken a bit of adjusting at first, especially because the handle was a lot longer than the Silver Arrow's, but he'd gotten the hang of it pretty fast, and now he thought he had a good feel for it.

Ginny weaved down around him from above, matching his looping flight pattern with her own broom, and tilted her face up to look at him as he looped up around her. "There are seven players on a team, same as regular Quidditch, and each team starts out with a keeper, a seeker, three chasers, and two beaters, right?"

Harry nodded, executing an easy sloth grip roll to weave down around Ginny. She negotiated his movements easily and rolled her broom around and above his, mimicking him.

"The thing is, though, you're not stuck in that position all game. If you want to switch positions with someone on your team you just have to fly up to them, tap them, and shout their position. Then they shout yours, and you've switched."

Harry wove his broom up around hers again, considering. "So if I'm chasing, but I see the snitch, I just have to find whoever's playing seeker at the moment and touch them and we can switch?"

Ginny rolled out of his way but stayed level with him, swinging her left leg around her broom handle to sit side-saddle, facing him. "Exactly."

Harry tipped his head to the side. "Sounds like chaos."

Ginny grinned. "Ex _actly_."

And Harry barely had enough time to reflect on how absolutely gone he already was when she _smiled_ _like_ _that_ because, without warning, Ginny slid all the way off her broom and threw herself onto the back of his.

"Oof." To his eternal shame he almost dropped them both out of shock when she landed behind him and then almost dropped them again when she wrapped her arms around his waist, tucking her own broom out of the way. Orange hair whipped into his face and he felt his cheeks burning as he struggled to steady the broom, his knuckles white around the handle.

She laughed at him, a throaty chuckle that vibrated in her chest and against Harry's back because she was _completely_ molded up against him, soft and warm at his back. Harry, on the other hand, had gone rigid.

The seat on his broom was growing uncomfortable and he shifted awkwardly, forcing himself to picture Dudley, pink-faced in his Smeltings uniform, gorging himself on cake— an image that tended to work in a pinch.

…Until Ginny leaned forward marginally, her breath tickling his ear. "Take us down, Harry."

And Harry pointed the handle downwards, chanting to himself— _Dudley Dudley Dudley._ Ginny whooped excitedly behind him, her hair whipping against his cheeks and even in his mouth, but Harry didn't care; his heart was _soaring_. It was like a crazy dream— he felt like some sort of wizarding James Bond, hurtling towards the earth like a meteor with a beautiful girl seated behind him, her arms around his waist, laughing delightedly into his neck.

He banked several meters above the ground and slowed, not trusting himself with a full-on Wronski with Ginny behind him. They neared the ground, drifting leisurely, and Ginny rolled off and collapsed on her back in the grass, starfishing her limbs, her own broom cast gently aside. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks and nose were very rosy and she had a huge grin on her face. Harry dismounted, and had the strong urge to just drop a quick kiss on her waiting smile.

She saw him staring and looked up at him. "Well you sure know how to show a girl a good time," she accused. It would've been cheeky if she weren't still breathless and smiling impossibly widely.

Harry grinned back down at her and had almost convinced himself it was a good idea to just bend over, wink playfully down at her, and drop a light kiss on the flushed tip of her nose when—

"Red!" A voice barked. Harry whirled around and Ginny sat up quickly.

A tall, athletic woman with a tight row of black braids in her hair and an angry-looking scowl was striding quickly towards them, flanked by two identical red-haired men wearing identical shit-eating grins.

"Hey there, little sis," The two men said in unison as they approached, raising their eyebrows rather suggestively at her and Harry.

Ginny had scrambled to her feet beside him and was scowling at them, but the tall woman held up her hand as if to forestall an argument. Harry vaguely recognized her as a reserve Harpies chaser. _Angelina something_.

"Red, you were supposed to be here at three," she growled. "I know for a _fact_ practice let out at one."

"Ange, it's barely quarter-past!" Ginny protested. "We don't play 'til four!"

"You know we have to regroup and go over strategy. We're down a seeker since Chaz left for Romania, but at least Oliver's back in town so we don't have to bother with McLaggen, and we may be able to get Diggory or Chang, so—"

"Ollie's back?" Ginny looked up in interest.

"Season doesn't start for a few months, so I popped back down for a few days to see how you misfit kids were faring without your star keeper," a burly man declared in a thick Scottish brogue as he emerged from around the building they were gathered behind and joined the group.

Harry's jaw nearly dropped when he recognized the newcomer from one of Ron's posters. He nudged Ginny urgently. "Is that—?"

"Oliver 'the Wall' Wood from Puddlemere United?" Ginny interrupted, rolling her eyes at the nickname.

"The one and only," Wood bowed with a joking flourish.

"Don't flatter yourself, Wood, you were easy enough to replace," Angelina told him, but there was no bite in her words and she cracked a thin smile.

"How've you been, Ginny?" Oliver asked, turning to Ginny, who gave some sort of flippant response.

Harry was still quietly taken aback. They would be playing quidditch with _Oliver Wood_? Just the other day Ron had made them all watch the Puddlemere Game Wood had first subbed in on over their pizza; Ron had practically _salivated_ over a particularly spectacular save.

"Ron would shit his pants," he mused, accidentally out loud, feeling a sudden pang that he'd left his new mate behind for this moment. Ginny snorted next to him, and the twins looked at him with sudden interest.

"You know dear ol' Ronnie-kins?" The twin on Angelina's left asked.

"Er, yeah," Harry stuttered, flushing under the sudden attention.

"He's met Ollie," Ginny assured Harry. "But he just gets all white-faced and stuttery."

"Not sure he's ever said a whole two words to me," Oliver offered rather awkwardly.

"At least we weren't stuck with Ronald for keeper," said the right twin, shuddering theatrically.

Harry frowned, offended on Ron's behalf. "He's pretty good, actually," He defended. "He's got a good head for strategy and stuff."

Right Twin looked surprised, and then a smile unraveled across his face again. "Well, well, well. Will we have to defend _both_ our baby siblings' honors from you?"

Harry's face went hot in embarrassment, but Ginny closed her hand around his wrist.

" _Ignore_ them, they're insufferable."

"George is unsufferable," Left Twin said, reaching his hand out for Harry to shake. "I'm Fred. We're beaters!"

Ginny rolled her eyes again. "No, he's _George_." She said. "That's Fred," she indicated Right Twin, who waved unrepentantly.

"So how do you know Ronnie-kins?" George asked curiously, vigorously shaking Harry's right hand.

Fred reached across and grabbed Harry's left hand, shaking it just as vigorously. "Also who are you?" He asked bluntly.

"Uh, we share a dorm," Harry explained. "We work together."

"I knew you looked familiar." Angelina snapped her fingers. "Henry, right? Henry Dursley. He's a water-boy for the Harpies training camp this summer."

"Uh, actually, it's—"

"Well, what've you brought him here for?" Angelina interrupted impatiently, turning to Ginny. "It's a _street_ game; we don't need a water-boy. It's fine if your boyfriend wants to watch but tell him to go sit somewhere while we plan strategy."

Harry raised his hand.

"What?" Angelina snapped impatiently.

"I'm not her boyfriend?" Harry volunteered.

Angelina glared at him, "I don't care."

Ginny squeezed Harry's arm placatingly but directed a long-suffering look up at Oliver. "Do you see what we've had to deal with, Ollie? She's turned into you." She turned back to Angelina. "And _you_ should be a bit more grateful. I've found you a seeker."

Angelina frowned, but Wood looked delighted. "Really?" He asked, stepping forward to inspect an awkward Harry. "Well I suppose he's got a good build for it. A Cleansweep? It'll do, I suppose. Is he any good?"

Ginny nodded immediately, a corner of her lip pulling up into a crooked smile. "I think you'll be pleasantly surprised."

Harry felt a warm feeling grow in his stomach.

"Fine," Angelina said tersely. "I suppose you'll have to do. Don't draw any attention to yourself in line-up and try to look as clueless and non-threatening as possible so they don't pick you." She gave him a cursory once-over, before muttering "Shouldn't be hard."

Harry eyed Ginny bemusedly, and she just winked at him, squeezing his arm again.

"My first pick will have to be Oliver," Angelina said, turning to the man in question. "Hopefully we win the coin toss so they don't pick you first. Flint hates you, but since you've broken off the reserves on a pro team, you're the obvious first choice."

"Is Bletchley here today?" Oliver asked.

Angelina nodded.

"Bletchley's reserve keeper for Appleby," Ginny whispered to Harry. "He _hates_ Wood's guts because Wood beat him out for the Puddlemere spot."

Harry nodded and mentally counted the assembled company. "Who's your seventh?"

Angelina grunted in acknowledgment of his question, "We'll have to shop around a bit. Alicia might show but if not, I liked Katie last game. She gets off work at 3:30 so we'll just have to hope."

"Alicia Spinnet and Katie Bell. They're chasers," Ginny explained to Harry's questioning look. "We've all played together at some point."

They talked some plays through, then, going back and forth for a bit. Harry was able to keep up, for the most part, and when he wasn't, they were all pretty good about filling him in, even the twins.

Then Angelina checked her watch. "Line-up's soon." She frowned at Harry. "What's your weakest position?"

"Uh, keeper, probably?" He sent a silent apology to his mother in heaven.

"How are you as a beater?"

"Uh—"

"Stand in the beater's line," Angelina commanded, marching off. "They'd be crazy to pick you."

Harry looked at the rest of them, feeling mildly offended. The twins just cackled and raced off, and George—or was it Fred?—threw his beater's bat at Harry, who deftly caught it.

Ginny moved her hand down his arm to grab his own hand and squeezed it sympathetically, "It's best not to all go in together," she explained. "Technically we're not supposed to plan this stuff out. You should go in alone so they don't associate you with us and try to steal you. You're like our secret weapon." She grinned up at him, then dropped his hand, picked up her discarded broom, and skipped after her brothers.

Harry watched her go, scratching his head.

Oliver grinned at him from where he was leaning on the building. His posture was relaxed, but he was drawn stiff and tight, and he was drumming his fingers manically against his thighs. "They don't know I'm in town yet, so I'll let them plan it out with Bletchley or whoever before I make my appearance," he told Harry.

He shrugged at Harry's raised eyebrows, his eyes gleaming. "It's strategy. Also, it's a street game; anything goes." He tipped his head back, fingers still drumming. "I missed this," he admitted quietly.

"Making the pros must feel amazing, though," Harry offered.

Oliver nodded, and his whole face brightened. "That it does," he said. "But what about you, kid? I noticed you didn't even blink when Johnson suggested a Wronski."

"Oh," Harry said uncertainly. "Yeah, I don't mind a good Wronski. I like the thrill."

"Ah, that's good for a seeker. The best seekers are reckless. Charlie Weasley seeked a lot back when I would captain here. He flew like the devil was after him." Oliver grinned. "And now he's off taming dragons in Romania."

Harry blinked. _How many brothers did Ginny and Ron have?_

Wood checked his watch, then motioned to Harry. "You go first. Good luck, Dursley."

...

Harry made his way back around the building— it looked like some sort of supply shed— and followed the sound of voices to a large makeshift pitch. He looked down, stamping his foot experimentally. His stomach churned, part terror, part thrill. It wasn't grass. It was _asphalt._

There were dozens of people milling about in various states of quidditch attire; some were seated, chatting with each other, tending to brooms, or lacing up arm-guards. He was able to discern four vague groups of people. He briefly eyed the small group of players playing with snitches before heading towards the assemblage of people with beater's bats, including one of the twins, who winked at Harry.

Angelina was pacing up front as she surveyed the crowd; a hulking man stood across from her with his arms crossed and looked out at the assembled players as well. Harry figured that must be Flint.

He saw Ginny, then, sprawled ungracefully on the asphalt and polishing her Cleansweep, nodding distractedly at something a boy tossing a quaffle to himself in front of her was saying. She had re-braided her hair and exchanged her Harpies uniform for a pair of red and gold running shorts and what looked to be one of Ron's Cannons t-shirts. It clashed loudly with her hair. Harry thought she looked beautiful.

She looked up as if sensing his thoughts, caught Harry's eye, and winked at him too, before turning back to her broom.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry spotted Wood slip in and subtly make his way to the back of the largest group, which was the chasers. Angelina clearly saw him too, because she cleared her throat obviously, spinning in front of her hulking counterpart.

"Okay," she said loudly. "Let's toss this coin and get on with it. Diggory?"

A strikingly handsome man got up from the seeker's group, fished a galleon out of his pocket and poised it on his thumb. He looked up. "Captains?"

"Heads," Flint said immediately.

Angelina's face was pinched. She nodded. "Tails, then."

Diggory flicked his thumb and tossed the galleon in the air. He caught it expertly— Harry could see why he was a seeker— and slapped it on the inside of his forearm. He removed the hand covering it, studied it, then looked up. "Tails it is. Angelina gets first pick."

Angelina exhaled strongly as Flint stewed beside her before snapping her head up to seek out Oliver in the crowd. "Oliver Wood," she said clearly.

Flint's head whipped around, and his eyes narrowed in anger as Oliver made his way to the front of the crowd, to many awed whispers. "Miles Bletchley," he growled.

A muscle-bound man stood up, cracking his knuckles, and went to join Flint.

"Fred and George Weasley," Angelina said.

"You can't do two," Flint spat.

Angelina just shrugged. "They're the twins. How about you just do two as well? Why do we do have to do this every time?"

"Fine. Roger Davies and Cedric Diggory."

Angelina winced, and the bloke who'd been talking to Ginny and the guy who'd flipped the coin both stood up.

"Katie Bell." The girl sitting next to Ginny bounced happily up to join Angelina.

"Gregory Goyle." A pudgy-looking boy who reminded Harry of Dudley stood up from a few seats in front of him in the beater's group.

"Ginny Weasley." Ginny hopped to her feet.

"Demelza Robins." She was a double-plaited girl in the chaser's group who looked longingly at Angelina's team as she went up.

"Henry Dursley." Harry winced— he'd never actually corrected her on his name— and clambered awkwardly to his feet, shouldering his broom and Fred's beater's bat. He picked his way through the crowd to Ginny's side.

Flint was looking from Harry to Angelina like she'd lost her mind, which certainly didn't fill Harry with self-confidence, but finally the other captain just shook his head and, shrugging, called out "Cho Chang."

A pretty girl with a long, satiny sheet of black hair made her way up and Harry heard Angelina say tightly to Ginny, "I'm trusting you."

With much grumbling, the people who didn't get picked cleared the field to settle on the bleachers. Harry and the others followed Angelina as she trooped across the pitch to huddle beneath the opposite center hoop.

"Dursley, you start as keeper," Angelina ordered. "Oliver, you start as seeker. Ginny, you and I will chase first with Fred, and Katie, you can play beater. Since they've got both Chang _and_ Diggory, I'll want you, Ginny, and you, Dursley, to keep your eyes out for the snitch. Tap in _immediately_ if you see it and one of you isn't seeking. Otherwise, as soon as the two-minute mark passes, Oliver, you tap in one of the twins, and I'll switch with Dursley. We need one twin beating at all times because they've got a lot more muscle on them— _I meant_ _ **Flint's team's**_ _got more muscle, not you two idiots_ —and at least one of us girls chasing at all times.

"I need Oliver through every position as fast as possible because the rest of you are rubbish keepers, but he'll tap in if we're taking losses. Otherwise, rotate through your worst positions as quick as the game allows so we can all play what we like best. Remember, you need to spend at least two minutes total in each position by the end of the game, and only the first and last two-minute marks are called, so keep your eyes on the clock, but _don't lose track of the game._ "

Oliver butt in. "If I may?"

She nodded tersely.

"Remember, a snitch catch doesn't end QuidSwitch; it's timed. So Red and Dursley keep your eyes peeled, and chasers don't let us get behind."

Angelina nodded, then met Harry's eyes. "Don't let me down, Dursley." And then she looked at the whole team. "Alright, who wants to spell our jerseys?"

Fred and George raised their hands immediately, then stuck them out into the center of the huddle. "Team Weasley on three!"

Ginny grinned and placed her hand on top of theirs.

"For the last time, no, we're not calling ourselves that—"

"One…" Harry hurried to put his hand on top of Ginny's.

"Two…" Wood and Katie hastily joined in.

"Three!" Angelina sighed heavily and placed her hand on top as well— "TEAM WEASLEY!"

Harry felt a jolt of something tingly shoot up through his fingertips to spark at the ends of his hair. "Wha—?" His shirt was now bright red.

" _FRED!_ " Angelina's voice was shrill. "Change us back!"

He looked up. A bemused Wood, fuming Angelina, and cackling Katie were now sporting trademark Weasley-red hair; everyone's shirts were now red, too. Harry pulled some of his fringe in front of his eyes. Sure enough, his hair was as orange as Ginny's. She grinned at him from across the circle.

"'Fraid we can't," George(?) said apologetically. "It's one of the new products we're testing out; we're having some glitches, but it'll be back to normal by tomorrow morning for sure!"

Angelina growled, but then shook her head resignedly. The fiery red hair looked rather striking against her ebony skin. "Fine, whatever. I'll let you two enjoy the only time I'll ever be a Weasley." She flipped her braids, shouldered her broom, and walked out to center-field.

Ginny laughed. "Fred, won't you ever learn that pulling pigtails isn't how adult men let women know they fancy them?"

Fred spluttered, but Ginny just ripped his beater's bat out of his hand and tossed it to Katie. "Good luck, Harry!" She called over her shoulder, and broke into a run to follow Angelina.

Harry mounted his broom, nodded at Wood and a still-spluttering Fred, and tossed George his bat back. George saluted him with it, and Harry flew up to station himself in front of the hoops.

* * *

 **AN: I know this chapter was pretty dialogue-heavy, but you'll definitely be seeing some quidditch action real soon! I'll try to get the next chapter up sometime this week. I think you'll also sort of start to get some of the threads of the plot by the next chapter, and maybe even some backstory if I can fit it in. For any of you who were upset with how Sirius acted last chapter, I urge you to keep reading. As always, please feed my starving ego by dropping me a review. They really motivate me to keep writing!**

 **Lots of Love,**

 **OS**


	6. Harry catches the snitch aka almost dies

**OOPS SORRY FOR THE TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES, Y'ALL. I ACCIDENTALLY UPLOADED SOME OF MY NOTES. THIS CHAPTER IS HELLA LONG, SO REVIEW IF YOU APPRECIATE ME FOR THIS.**

 **LOTS OF LOVE,**

 **OS**

* * *

The quaffle soared through the left goal-hoop. Harry winced. His mother was probably turning in her grave. And Arabella would just raise an eyebrow, which would mean ten laps— on _foot._

" _Ouch_ , and it looks like we've begun! Clean shot by Bletchley using his trademark right feint, which Newbie wouldn't have fallen for if he's watched Bletchley play here before! That's 10-love for the Flintstones, folks. Again, I'm your friendly announcer Lee Jordan, and what I think we all wanna know is _who_ is the scrawny new kid and why the _hell_ did Johnson let him on the team, eh?"

Harry dove after the quaffle, ignoring the teasing jab. _Crooked Teeth likes the right feint._ Okay. He could remember that.

Wood met him near the base of the goalpost as he scooped up the quaffle.

"Shake it off," he advised lowly. "You'll get used to it. Bletchley's got a couple of tricks, but he's a keeper first and foremost."

Harry nodded and flew the quaffle back up to center-hoop, trying to calm his breathing. He tossed the quaffle to Ginny, who gave him a reassuring smile before ducking a bludger and zipping off, Fred and Angelina in tow.

The chasers evened out the score— "Beautiful shot by Arms Johnson— who actually manages to pull off the Weasley hair, I must say, doesn't she look fetching— right through center hoop, sailing clear past Chang's head; we're tied up at 10-10 and this match is shaping up to be a fantastic one."

And then Roger Davies was rushing towards him quaffle in hand, and Harry's mind was abruptly calm. This bloke was a chaser, Harry remembered, since he'd been flirting with Ginny at line-up. Bletchley was a keeper. They'd all be expecting him to think like a keeper.

But he wasn't a keeper, or a chaser. He was a seeker. And that meant he got where he needed to go, no matter what came at him. Harry tensed in preparation. Davies feinted hard to the left, but his eyes didn't go with him, and Harry shot off for the right hoop instead, pressing himself to the Cleansweep, throwing himself in the path of the hurtling quaffle.

He grunted as it connected, hitting him solidly in the side, hard and heavy. It bounced off.

"Wouldja look at that!" Jordan yelled gleefully. "Looks like the new kid is a fast learner! Dursley, was it? Newbie Dursley with the save, no luck for Davies, and Ginny Weasley's got the quaffle now— smallest player on the field, but if you've ever been on the receiving end of her Bat-Bogey Hex, you'll know that she's got a mean streak a mile-wide— Oh, that's the buzzer! We're at two minutes, folks, which means that we're about to be looking at a very different playing field!"

Angelina flew up to Harry. "Not bad, rookie," she said begrudgingly, before pounding him hard on the back, "Keeper!"

"Chaser!" Harry yelled with an answering grin, ducking out of her way.

"Davies with the steal!" Jordan shouted, and sure enough, Davies was zig-zagging towards the hoops, quaffle tucked under his arm.

Ginny was tailing him stealthily. She caught Harry's eye significantly, and he dove, just in time to catch the falling quaffle when she finally swooped in, knocking the ball from Davies' hold.

He didn't waste a second, immediately rolling out of the path of a bludger and shooting out in a bold corkscrew towards the hoops.

"Oh! _Beautiful_ teamwork on that Porksoff Ploy by Gee Dub and Dursley— not too shabby for a new kid— and looks like Dursley might take it all the way—"

Harry dodged players and bludgers like his life depended on it, weaving a tight but unpredictable flight pattern he and Arabella had designed and perfected down to a science— Jordan was whooping excitedly into the microphone, but he ducked his head and concentrated. He knew Ginny was flying overhead. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her descend to glide smoothly into position at the left hoop. The girl with the pretty black hair, Chang, dove down to guard her.

 _Think of what you think you should do… Then do something else entirely._

He looked up, smiling brightly at the acting keeper— It was the gorilla kid, the one that looked like Dudley. Harry surged forward, thrusting the quaffle forward in a lightning fast motion with both hands before executing a smooth underhand pass to Ginny, who dodged Chang's block and batted the ball easily into the left hoop.

Harry heard a roar of approval from the crowd; Lee Jordan hollered the new score, 20-10, into the microphone.

Ginny turned to him and beamed.

Goyle retrieved the quaffle, and Harry pivoted to keep it in his eye-line.

"I'm switching with Katie," Ginny said, brushing past him. "You're doing great."

Flint and Davies made a quick and bold play with the quaffle while Katie and Ginny made the switch, sinking it cleanly in the right hoop before Harry, Fred, and Katie could really organize themselves, but they made up for it by executing an excellent Chaser's Braid that ended with Katie faking a pass to Fred before passing to Harry, who was able to shoot it into the center hoop.

Marcus Flint made two more unsuccessful bids at Angelina with the quaffle before a determined-looking Wood sent a well-aimed bludger his way that nearly knocked him off his broom-seat, much to a chortling Lee Jordan's glee.

Harry caught Angelina's toss and passed immediately to Fred, who passed to Katie and went to relieve Angelina. Diggory and Chang double-teamed Katie, and she couldn't get off a clean shot or pass, resulting in an easy steal for Flint from below.

Harry pursued, but Flint turned his head fractionally, caught sight of him, and jabbed his elbow violently back into his nose with a nasty crunch.

"Ouch! Looks like first blood has been drawn, folks! Blatant cobbing foul on Dursley by Flint."

Harry grunted, blood spurting from his nose. He knew that a cobbing foul meant a penalty shot for him, but Flint was zig-zagging away with the quaffle, Chang and Diggory dogging him in support, and other than a sympathetic hiss from Lee and the crowd, there was no call. Then he realized that it was a street match, and maybe they didn't call fouls.

Then Angelina was there, zooming straight into Flint from left field, driving her broomstick roughly into his back. At the same time a well-aimed bludger collided so forcibly with his shoulder from the front that he dropped the quaffle, right into the waiting hands of Katie Bell.

"Blatant Blatching by Arms Johnson in retaliation!" Lee Jordan roared delightedly. "Like a Mama Bear defending her precious cub! And beautiful bludger from Gee Dub."

"Alright, Dursley?" Angelina asked, ignoring the announcer and turning to him.

Harry nodded at her as best he could with his forearm mashed up against his nose.

She cracked a small, genuine grin at him, before rolling her eyes. "You've chased for a while, go get behind a beater's bat."

Harry nodded again into his bloody sleeve, but she was already gliding away to assist Katie.

He turned, and nearly ran into Ginny, who was racing towards him with her beater's bat, Wood in tow. "Are you okay?" She demanded. Without waiting for an answer she pushed his arm out of the way and grabbed his chin.

"Looks like both sides are tending to the injured— Dursley's nose looks broken, and is Flint's shoulder dislocated?— but Johnson and Bell are tag-teaming it up to the hoops without a care in the world, and Chang and Goyle just can't keep up."

Wood peered closely at his nose with a grimace. "Yeah, it's broken alright," he pronounced, "but simple enough to fix. Ready?"

Before Harry even knew what he was agreeing to, Ginny had grabbed both of his hands. Wood reached up and more or less yanked his nose (painfully) back into place.

" _Argh!_ " Harry recoiled from both of them, grabbing at his newly-straightened nose. Ginny hissed in sympathy, releasing him.

"Lookin' good, Rookie," Wood declared with a crooked smile, inspecting him. "Now take this bat." He thrust it at Harry, then pounded him on the back, "Chaser!"

"Beater," Harry croaked, and then Wood was zooming off after Angelina.

Ginny was _evil_ behind the beater's bat, Harry learned.

Whenever the two of them had control of both bludgers, she liked for them to both target the same person.

She also had absolutely no qualms about aiming for players' weak spots, like Flint's shoulder.

When she unseated Goyle by bludgering him in the small of his back while Harry knocked the wind out of him with one from the front, she pumped her fist in victory, laughing.

"Hermione told me that would work!" She said excitedly, as Goyle struggled to re-seat himself, his breathing labored. Roger Davies was groaning under the larger boy's weight as he attempted to help roll him back on. "Ron's friend," Ginny explained. "She's a genius. I used to be pants at beater, but she gave me some tips on targeting anatomical weak spots."

"My pen-pal has a friend named Hermione," Harry offered, as he swung his bat to dispatch an incoming bludger away from Oliver Wood's unprotected back, sending it zooming, unabashedly, towards Roger Davies instead. "But he lives in Egypt."

"It's such a unique name, though," Ginny said with a small frown. She tackled a bludger when it came hurtling towards them. "Send this at Flint," she suggested, nodding towards the acting keeper as she struggled with the bludger. "I've gotta go switch out with one of the twins."

She released the bludger and Harry took a crack at it with the bat, sending it sailing powerfully towards the hoops. Flint dodged the bludger, but missed the quaffle shot, which Angelina sank easily in the center hoop.

"That's 50-30 for Team Weasley!" Lee Jordan hollered. "Well-timed bludger by Dursley, and Angelina Johnson is on _fire_ today! That's Diggory in possession now— _Holy shit_ —! _Johnson's down!_ Illegal headshot from behind by Goyle. _Merlin,_ I think she's out cold—"

Harry's stomach bottomed out. Angelina did indeed appear to be out cold. She was dropping like a stone.

Without thinking twice he dove after her, digging his heels into his broomstick. He wasn't the only one with that idea—

"ANGE!"

" _Merlin,_ Fred Weasley's left the hoops unguarded—"

Harry caught up with Angelina and grabbed onto her, kicking his heels into his broom and attempting to slow their downward plummet. The angle was awkward, and he was struggling with her momentum when Fred Weasley was instantly at her other side, supporting her weight, his normally cheerful face flat and tense.

Oliver Wood joined them momentarily. "Is she okay?"

"Flint takes the open shot and scores, despite Diggory's refusal to participate, bless his Hufflepuff heart," Lee Jordan reported. "That's 50-40 now, and no keeper to recover the quaffle. And Katie Bell with the quaffle, now. What's the status on Arms?"

"She's got a pulse," Fred almost sobbed, his fingers pressing into the side of Angelina's neck. She stirred, vaguely

" _Dear Merlin_ , have they no shame? Miles Bletchley, more like Miles _Blatch_ ley!" Lee yelled. "Blatch and steal on poor Katie, the lone chaser, and Bletchley in possession, now, dodging a bludger from George Weasley. Diggory's still not playing, and Flint appears to be yelling at him— _Oh no!_ Another ten points to the Flintstones as Blatchley takes advantage of the open goalposts. That's 50-50, you guys. _Where_ is Team Weasley?"

Oliver nodded, his face tense. "Switch with me, Fred. I'll keep. Dursley, make her beater, and then go switch with Ginny." He grabbed Harry, fingers digging painfully into his shoulder. "Find that snitch, Harry. We need the lead."

Harry nodded, then tapped Angelina gently on the shoulder; "Chaser," he said tentatively. She mumbled something in response and Fred gave him a wavery thumbs up, so he let go of her and turned away.

"Folks, it's the moment we've all been waiting for! Oliver 'The Wall' Wood is at the hoops! Looks like Johnson is down for the count; she's being taken down to the medic, but from Fred Weasley's thumbs up I think she might make a come-back. Team Weasley may take this home yet! Wait, Dursley, you're going the wrong way!"

But Ginny met him halfway, obviously understanding his objective. She reached a hand out to him, then snatched it back as a bludger sailed between them. "Oi, watch it Davies," she snarled, then grabbed Harry's arm. "Chaser!"

"Seeker," Harry said, feeling instantly more confident.

"Do it, Harry," Ginny whispered, and then let him go.

Her fingers had scarcely left his arm when he saw a glint of gold below him.

He rolled immediately, pressing his face into the wood. The snitch dipped teasingly, surfaced, and then plummeted.

Harry dove, crossing his ankles and pointing the broom handle down at the ground, his body absolutely vertical as he threw himself after it like an arrow.

"Oi! I think Dursley's seen the snitch!" Jordan shouted. "That's why he was going the wrong way, to switch with Weasley! Dear Merlin, look at how steep that dive is— Diggory's in pursuit!"

The world was absolutely silent but for the whoosh of air around him as Harry pressed into the dive with everything he had, urging the Cleansweep faster. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a small black shape, and he twitched the broomstick fractionally, still keeping to his dive. The bludger went whistling past him.

"Effortless dodge by Dursley, did you _see_ that, but just enough loss of momentum for Diggory to start to gain on him—"

Harry gritted his teeth.

Diggory dropped in front of him, also vertical. "Pull up!" He yelled frantically at Harry. "Don't be stupid!"

Harry just pressed harder with his broom

"That's a straight drop, folks, that's asphalt. Dear Merlin, they're twenty meters from the ground. Ten, Diggory's slowing down, but Dursley's not even stuttering. Five— Diggory pulls up, but Dursley's still going— this kid is crazy—two meters, folks!"

Diggory vanished from Harry's eyesight, and not a moment too soon, because Harry saw the snitch again.

He kicked back off the broom with his feet, launching himself off, his arms outstretched towards the whizzing ball.

He pounced, and his fingers closed around cool metal. He felt an instant surge of victory, and then he hit the ground— forearms first, then chin and knees, and he skidded to a painful halt, his body scraping messily across the asphalt and tearing up his robes and skin.

The crowd was silent.

Harry flopped onto his back exhaustedly. One lens of his glasses was cracked, and the stem was hanging off his ear. Not to mention, his legs and arms and part of his chin were absolutely shredded.

" _Harry!_ " Ginny dismounted messily, tossing her broom and, Harry noticed, Ron's onto the ground. She was white-faced. "Are you _completely_ mad?" She demanded, her voice sounding strangled.

He winced at her, but tried to grin, though it was probably bloody and deranged-looking and didn't help his case at all. "Not completely?" he offered awkwardly. He lifted his fist to her, and a struggling golden wing was visible between his fingers—

The crowd erupted.

"SWEET MERLIN." Lee Jordan was screeching. "OH MY DEAR, SWEET MERLIN. DURSLEY HAS THE SNITCH! THAT WAS THE MOST INSANE, SUICIDAL DIVE I HAVE EVER SEEN! _LOOK_ AT THE POOR BASTARD; HE LOOKS LIKE ROADKILL! _WHERE_ DID THEY _FIND_ THIS KID?!"

Cedric Diggory landed next. He regarded Harry's prone form, looking both bemused and impressed as he offered him a hand up.

Groaning, Harry took it, and sat up.

"Blimey," Diggory said, giving him a rueful grin. "I thought for sure you were trying to pull a Wronski Feint and flatten me onto the blacktop. I didn't even see it."

"No," Ginny snapped, her voice sharp. "Just trying to flatten _himself_ on it, apparently."

Cedric gave Harry an awkward grimace of sympathy, and then mounted his broom again.

Harry looked nervously at Ginny, but she just gave him a weak smile and then leaned forward to gently brush his hair out of his eyes. "Angelina's back up again. You're through every position, right?"

He nodded, then grunted when the motion creased the bloody scrape across his neck and chin.

"Okay," Ginny said, chuckling a little at his scowl. "Medic will help you, and we'll have everyone who hasn't played seeker yet come down and tap in with you one at a time, but you stay. You're done for today."

When Harry tried to protest, she removed his glasses.

He blinked owlishly up at her blurry pink face, almost pouting, and then she bent and pressed a quick, chaste kiss on his lips.

Harry froze.

"Good job, today, Harry." She said, and then patted his cheek. "We've got it from here."

They did, it turned out. Harry was carted over to the bleachers to be fussed over by a young wizard in a set of white robes. He couldn't see shit without his glasses, but he listened to Lee Jordan's announcements or to the descriptions from Fred, Katie, and Angelina when they came to "play seeker" by simply tapping and then sitting beside him for the allotted two minutes apiece.

Fred and Katie were each effusive in their praise of him, but Angelina just gave him a short nod, her lips fighting a smile, before whacking him scoldingly on the back of the head.

It was an overwhelming victory. They scored eleven more goals before time was called, and Oliver only let in one when a bludger cracked into his wrist as he was reaching for the quaffle, fracturing it.

Fortunately, time was called, and it was apparently an easy enough fix for someone with a wand, and then they were all bandaged and Fred was proposing they head to a pub to celebrate.

And that's how Harry found himself seated across from Oliver and Ginny, sandwiched between Diggory (who was holding hands under the table with Chang) and a grinning George Weasley, who had an arm around him and one around his brother as the two of them swayed and belted out a drinking song in perfect harmony.

Ginny made a surprised noise, and then kicked him lightly under the table, gesturing with her chin to a couple having a very involved and enthusiastic snog at a table near the window.

Harry glanced at them, then looked away quickly, his ears heating up. _Wait._ He turned to look again, and then laughed out loud. "OI RON!" He called out.

The couple broke apart immediately. The girl, who had long, bushy hair, covered her face with her hands. Ron wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt and looked around, his ears pinking, before he caught sight of the table of Weasleys.

Harry waved him over with a grin, and Ron grinned back at him, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly before leaning over to say something to the girl. She shook her head, face still buried in her hands, but Ron captured one of her hands and pried it off her face. He kissed it.

Fred whistled suggestively, and Ron's neck and ears flushed bright red, but he said something earnestly to his companion, and eventually she nodded, allowing him to help her up.

They approached the table, and Harry struggled to make room, but Chang and Diggory took the opportunity to stand up, hand-in-hand, and make their excuses— to much raucous whistling and cat-calling from the twins—

"Good Game, Harry," Cedric said with a smile, and Cho waved, and then they departed.

"Alright, mate?" Ron asked, slapping him on the back as he lowered himself onto the bench. "I like your hair."

"Thanks," Harry replied. "I'm thinking of keeping it."

"I'm Hermione," the girl said, slipping between them and extending a brown hand for Harry to shake. He did, warmly. She looked vaguely familiar.

"I've heard a lot about you," he grinned. "Ginny tells me you're a genius."

"She is," Ron said proudly. "She's interning at the Ministry this summer!"

She blushed at the praise, smiling widely. She had nice teeth, and Harry was just tipsy enough to tell her that.

Ginny laughed at him from across the table, but Hermione just grinned. "Thanks!" She said. "I just got my braces off! My parents are dentists."

Something clicked into place. "Granger & Granger?" He asked.

She nodded, looking surprised. "But they're muggles, how do you—?"

"My aunt and uncle go there," He explained. "There are pictures of you up everywhere in the office."

Hermione nodded in recognition, but whatever she was about to say was interrupted by a tipsy Wood plunking down his bottle of Firewhiskey rather ceremoniously.

"Tell me, Rookie," He slurred, his brogue stronger than usual. "Where'd you train? I don't remember seeing you at Hogwarts."

"Oh," Harry said. "Er, I was mostly home-taught, I guess? My mum and dad had a bunch of old playbooks and videos and stuff, and I picked it up pretty quickly. And one of our neighbors is a pretty decent flyer herself, Arabella Figg. I was being careless one night, years ago, in our muggle neighborhood, and she caught me out on my broom. I was scared out of my wits, thought she was going to call the cops, but she ended up teaching me a lot. She's the one who got me this job, actually. She's…well, she has an in with the Harpies."

"I thought you were muggle-born?" Ron asked.

"Muggle-raised," Harry corrected, shrugging.

"Have you seen him play?" Wood demanded of Ron, who was apparently too tipsy, too happy, or too startled to revert to the speechless fanboy Ginny and the twins had made him out to be.

"A little, I guess," Ron said slowly. "Why?"

"He's mad," Wood proclaimed seriously. "Brilliant, but mad."

George's grip tightened around Harry's neck and he pulled him along as he swayed with Fred, still singing. Ron smiled apologetically at him, but Harry's heart was soaring. He met Ginny's eye across the table and they grinned at each other.

…

Later that night found Harry, alone, back on Harpies turf, trudging back towards his dorm. Ginny had been corralled back to the barracks by Angelina early on in the night, shooting him a helpless look as she went. The Twins and Katie left a while later to maneuver a thoroughly sloshed Oliver Wood back to the Twins' place; he'd offered to help, but they'd waved him off, genially. And then it was just Hermione, Ron, and Harry.

They'd stayed out for a couple of hours longer, talking and laughing, until Hermione had checked her watch and cursed. She had an early morning tomorrow, apparently, and had to head to bed. Ron got up as well, and apologized to Harry for not accompanying him back, as he wanted to walk Hermione home.

At first, Harry had been a little wary about third-wheeling, but he needn't have worried. The three of them seemed to fit together like puzzle pieces. Hermione got all of his muggle references and Ron got his humor, and maybe it was the buzz of his earlier victory or the buzz of the drink, but there was something about the two of them that just felt like home.

Harry was ripped out of his thoughts when a big, black dog came bounding out of nowhere and tackled him to the ground.

He fell flat on his back with a muffled "Oof!" his glasses flying off, as the dog attacked his face rather enthusiastically with a big wet tongue.

Harry laughed, startled, trying to fend off the slobbery mutt as it continued to lick his face.

He tried to sit up, waving his arms to signal surrender, and the dog backed down, wagging its tail happily. "There's a good boy," Harry said, reaching up to pet the blurry dog, squinting in the darkness. It whined happily as he scratched behind its ears, nuzzling into his hand.

"Yes, Good Boy," Harry repeated, grinning. He groped at the dog's neck for a tag, but just found a thin, metal collar locked around it. He frowned, dismayed at the cruel-looking collar and how bony the poor thing was. "Are you a stray? Or do you have an owner out there, looking for you?"

"Padfoot!" A voice barked, right on cue.

The dog stilled, it's tail drooping, and darted between Harry's legs, letting out a soft whine.

Harry straightened, alarmed.

"Padfoot— Oh _there_ you are, you mangy mutt. Here, let me take him off your hands—"

The blurry form of a tall man stepped into visibility, threw Harry a generic smile, and then stooped. He grabbed the struggling dog by the scruff of its neck, wrestling it towards him.

Harry felt sickened. Why have a dog, if you were just going to abuse it? "He doesn't seem to like you very much," he said sharply.

The man stilled, then looked up at Harry, who squinted back and was just able to make out the cold grey eyes. It was that man, Sirius Black.

"What's your name, boy?" He barked.

 _Don't tell anyone your last name,_ Arabella had said.

And suddenly his gut was telling him, very clearly, that even his false name was a bad idea. Something about this man felt absolutely dangerous.

But Harry's hair was red and his glasses were gone, so he looked up at him and said, easily, "Henry Weasley."

"Well watch you attitude, Weasley," the man ordered coolly. "I can smell the firewhiskey on your breath; I could have you fired."

He turned to go, dragging the poor creature in tow, and Harry felt a pang of sorrow for the friendly mutt.


	7. Harry is angsty aka backstory in italics

In the morning, Harry was telling Ron about the eerie encounter with Sirius Black, Ron listening raptly, when there was a swift knock on the door. Before either of them could answer it, it opened, admitting a slightly ruffled Hestia Jones.

They both made to stand up, but she waved Ron off, "Easy, Weasley, I just need to speak with Dursley, here, for a moment."

Harry felt his stomach drop. Was this something to do with last night? Ron gave him a concerned look, but Harry just forced a grin, got up, and followed the coach out.

…

Hestia ushered him into her office, closed the door, and fixed him with a look he couldn't quite decipher. They stared at each other until Harry broke her gaze to study his feet.

"Am I being fired?"

She started, then seemed to come back to herself. She smoothed down her quidditch robes, "No, nothing like that." She moved away from him to seat herself on her desk and gestured to the chair in front of it, "Have a seat."

"No thank you," Harry said politely.

She nodded distractedly, then, "I have some… _upsetting_ news." She paused, seeming to gather herself, "My sister has…She has passed away."

Harry looked at her, nonplussed. "Gwenog?" he asked dully.

She dipped her head, "No—" Her voice cracked. "No," she said, clearing her throat. She looked up again to look him in the eye. Her eyes were glistening.

"No," Harry repeated, uncomprehending.

She stood up and went around to the back of her desk, bending to rifle through a stack of something. "Arabella was getting on in age, so I suppose it shouldn't have come as such shock, but still, I just wish— Well, she didn't have much, but she left you quite a bit, actually—"

" _No_ ," Harry said loudly, causing her to look up. _What was she saying, she wasn't making any sense— "_ No. What are you—? She was barely fifty! I just— I saw her last month, she was perfectly _fine_ —"

She looked at him pityingly, "The life-spans of squibs—"

" _Don't call her that_."

"Fine, the life-spans of people with… _my sister's condition_ can be tragically short-lived, even by muggle standards."

Harry's limbs had gone numb.

Hestia straightened; she was holding a beautifully-crafted broom with a look of consternation on her face. She thrust it out to him and he took it mechanically.

The wood sang in his hands.

"It's a custom Firebolt," Hestia explained. "Arabella had several notes and ideas for modifications and she sent them to me; I had them sent to the broom-smith— it's tailored for you specifically. I think she was planning to give it to you on your birthday."

He turned the well-polished broom handle over in his hands, and just barely made out the name _Harry_ engraved in stylized gold lettering on the end before the world blurred. He blinked, trying desperately not to let the tears spill over. The back of his neck felt hot.

He felt a hand tentatively close over his knuckles, before it withdrew. "I'm sorry. Rest assured, you'll always have a place here; I know the two of you were close—"

It was hot, stiflingly hot, but abruptly, Harry felt absolutely calm. "I know you the two of you _weren't_ ," he bit out, his voice acid. He looked up in time to see her recoil visibly, before she composed herself.

"Despite our… _differences_ … I loved my sister—"

Harry felt completely out of his own body. He'd been mistaken— he wasn't calm, he was _livid_. His blood was boiling; he thought he might burst. Instead, he chuckled, and it was loud and harsh and angry and choked. "Well, you certainly put on a good show," he accused.

" _Excuse me?"_ Hestia looked outraged; she'd obviously reached the end of her tolerance of him, _but he didn't care_. "I know you're upset, but _I just lost my sister!"_

"Oh yeah? Tell me, what's _that_ like?" Harry bellowed. He could hear the windowpanes rattling, and in the back of his mind warning bells were going off, but he was too bent out of shape to understand or care or try to reel himself back in, "What's it like _losing a sister?_ Having her turn her back on you, _leave you behind_ to go somewhere you can—can _never follow—?!_ "

Hestia looked at him like she'd been slapped. "It wasn't like that—"

But Harry ignored her. The pressure was building in his head and he thought he might _explode—_

The window exploded.

The glass shattered, and the drapes blew out into the room with the force of the sudden wind, papers flying everywhere, and it was like Harry had been doused with cold water.

He blinked, feeling small and stupid and mortified and very, very empty. He looked at the shattered glass, suddenly terrified, before turning his gaze to Hestia to gauge her reaction.

She was studying him with narrowed eyes. "I was under the impression that you were also a squib," she stated, her eyebrows raising.

"I am," Harry said automatically, before flushing at his obvious lie. He ran a hand through his hair nervously, and her eyebrows climbed even higher.

She took two steps towards him. "That's an interesting scar," she commented.

Harry's blood went cold. He turned to leave, in two strides making it as far as to touch the doorknob before—

" _Colloportus!_ "

The door clicked solidly, and Harry knew it was locked, but he tried the knob anyway before slowly turning around, breathing hard.

She was still at her desk, looking as calm and collected as one could be amidst the disaster that her office currently was— papers and shattered glass scattered everywhere, drapes billowing, the floor-to-ceiling windows gaping open.

Ginny's face swam into his head, and he remembered her excitedly pointing to the Quidditch poster, _"Nothing to show for it but a cut—though I reckoned it scarred—in the shape of a lightning bolt."_

 _Don't tell anyone your last name,_ Arabella had said. But did that extend to her own sister?

Harry's feet were moving before he had even processed what was likely the stupidest idea he'd ever had. He broke into a run, not even checking Hestia's face for a reaction before he hurled himself out the open window.

He heard her strangled gasp behind him, and when he hit the cool air, a few screams from the girls outside, but he let himself fall for a scant, heady moment, the wind whipping in his streaming eyes, before he pulled the broom under him and rolled—swift and fluid— into a sharp right, rocketing off into the sky.

...

 _Harry spent most of his childhood in a cupboard under the Dursley's stairs. It wasn't until a dinner guest wondered why there was a lock on outside of their supply cupboard that they relocated him to the attic._

 _Harry liked the relocation, actually, because despite the dust and the cobwebs and all the wood shavings, it was much bigger than the cupboard and there were lots of boxes up there, filled with all sorts of interesting things. Opening each box was like a little adventure._

 _From these boxes he'd salvaged a broken little Mickey Mouse clock as well as several half-melted action figures, which he had arranged with care on his rickety little bedside table. There had also been several books— beautiful fairytales and storybooks about magical kingdoms that had been packed away and left to decay, forgotten, in the attic._

 _Harry treasured all of his little finds, but it wasn't until his tenth birthday that he finally opened the large, dusty trunk that was hidden away in the corner and uncovered the greatest of treasures. When he blew at the layer of dust on the lid, it scattered, revealing four letters stitched into the leather. Harry traced them reverently: **L-I-L-Y**. This was his **mother's** trunk. It was padlocked, but when he tentatively touched one of the heavy-duty locks, it clicked open under his touch._

 _He opened the trunk and found the most magical books of them all. He thumbed through one titled **Hogwarts: A History** , drinking in the exquisite illustrations and strange, beautiful words— he almost dropped the book when he first saw one of the pictures move— but the book that called to him was the next one: a worn, battered tome called **Quidditch Through the Ages**. He devoured that one in a single night, learned the strange rules of a strange, impossible game, played on flying broomsticks in the air, and drank in every single inked letter of the notes and diagrams scribbled in the margins. Was this his mother's handwriting? _

_Yes, he learned, when he retrieved another book from the trunk: a small, leather-bound diary, filled with a young Lily's thoughts— her surprise and joy upon learning she was a witch, learning that there was an entire world that nobody knew about, a world with magic wands and robes and goblins… There were descriptions of a magnificent castle, of strange, magical classes, and then, a fascination with flight, with broomsticks, and notes about this wonderful game called Quidditch, plays scribbled into the journal's pages and on the backs of scraps of homework assignments, and also… irritated musings about a boy called Potter, and then, later, about a wonderful man named James._

 _And then Harry found the broom. It was as old as the trunk; the twigs were weepy and the handle knotted and gnarled, but when he held it in his hands it hummed with energy, almost like a living thing. He had never felt more alive in his life, or more sure of who he was. He believed, then, without a doubt, that magic was real. His mother was magic, and his father. And he, Harry Potter, was magic. He wasn't a freak. He was special. And one day, the letter would come for him just as it came for his mother and he would join their world._

 _That night he snuck out and flew the broom around the neighborhood. He tried to take it slow at first, and keep low to the ground, but he found he couldn't help but push the limits. It wasn't until he was soaring far above the rooftops, laughing, that he felt, for the first time that he could remember, absolutely and utterly free._

 _He became an expert at sneaking out at night, tip-toeing out the door, broom in hand, when the Dursleys were snoring in their beds, and hurling himself at the sky._

 _One night the Dursleys were out on a weekend trip and Harry was home alone. It wasn't that late out, yet, but it was dark, and Harry was itching to try a maneuver he'd found in an old video in the trunk from what was apparently the 1966 Quidditch World Cup._

 _He executed the flip almost perfectly, but he was too low on the ground and he over-corrected trying to avoid a fence, and tumbled head-first into someone's bed of begonias. He looked up, dazed, only to meet the shocked eyes of Mrs. Figg, the strange, cat-loving widow who lived down the street. She'd reached to pull him to his feet, her face determined, and he'd been filled with the abrupt certainty that he was going to jail._

 _He would have never guessed that he'd actually found himself a coach._

 _She taught him how to fly, Arabella Figg did, taught him how to play. They trained hard, late into the night, and she worked out a deal with the Dursleys, even, asking to borrow him on certain days to help her with gardening and household chores, but really she'd be barking at him as he ran laps and did push-ups and practiced dodging bludgers and catching snitches._

 _Harry's letter did come, eventually. He was eleven, and he picked it up with the rest of the mail, but Uncle Vernon saw it, and before Harry even had a chance to read it, it'd been plucked from his hands and thrown in the fireplace._

 _Harry watched it burn, watched his dreams burn with it, and fervently held onto the hope that another letter would come—_

 _It never did._

 _Maybe they only sent one, or maybe the Dursleys had somehow contacted the school and rejected the offer. They refused to tell him anything when he asked, demanded, and finally pleaded with them about it._

 _When he brought it up to Arabella, she confessed to him that she'd never received a letter either. She was what the wizarding world called a "Squib," meaning she had no magic. Consequently she'd been shunned by the entire wizarding world, and even her own family. That was why she lived in the muggle world, like Harry and the Dursleys._

 _Eventually, Harry gave up. He stopped asking about the letter, about Hogwarts. Somehow, he'd fallen through the cracks. He'd been forgotten, like Arabella._

 _His life stayed the same. He went to school, endured Dudley's torment, and put up with the neglect and abuse of his aunt and uncle. Weird things still happened around him— once, when Dudley steal someone's lunch, he inexplicably grew a pig's tail. He had to have it surgically removed!— but Harry was better at controlling it, now._

 _In school, they had an assignment where they had to write to pen-pals across the world. Harry's pen-pal was a bloke named Roonil Wazlib, from Egypt. He was a strange bloke. He didn't understand basic things like electricity or telephones, but his English was pretty good, even if he did say strange things sometimes and used very strange paper. Harry didn't know much about Egypt, but he guessed that it was probably very poor if they didn't even have electricity. But Roonil was nice, and Harry liked talking to him._

 _When he'd finally come to terms with the fact that he was not getting another Hogwarts letter, he'd wanted to quit Quidditch. He had blown up at Arabella and thrown his broom on the ground and accidentally smashed a lot of her bowls with his magic; he'd apologized to her for the broken bowls and then stormed off, telling her he'd never be back._

 _…He'd been at her door the next night, figurative hat in hand. Magic had forgotten him, but he couldn't forget magic, couldn't forget that freedom, that utter joy of flight, the absolute bliss of soaring through the night sky like a bird._

 _The pen-pal assignment was officially over, but they kept in touch. Harry gave Roonil Arabella's address, and she gave him Roonil's letters when he came over to train and posted his own letters for him._

 _They were his only friends: his pen pal and his Quidditch coach._

 _And so the years went._

 _Things got worse, at the Dursleys._

 _Harry was fifteen when Uncle Vernon lost his job. Aunt Petunia was constantly anxious and snappish; not even Dudley was spared her ire. But Uncle Vernon was the worst. He started drinking more, and since he was around the house more often, he saw more of Harry, and it was so very easy for him to direct his anger at Harry._

 _Harry's tactic was to keep his head down, but it wasn't easy. It was harder to find time to write to Roonil, and harder to sneak out to meet Arabella. And when he was at the house, it was impossible to do anything right. Uncle Vernon was looking for any reason to punish him._

 _Uncle Vernon certainly had a temper, but while before he would yell, scream, deprive him of meals, and sometimes push him around a little, he only rarely resorted to physical violence._

 _He was different now, though. Meaner, more dangerous. It was scary— Harry had no frame of reference for this new Uncle Vernon's limits, for what he would or wouldn't do._

 _He gave Harry a black eye, once, when Harry, exhausted from a late-night practice with Arabella, tripped and accidentally spilled Uncle Vernon's coffee all down the man's front while serving breakfast. Harry had frozen, terrified and suddenly alert, cup still in hand. Uncle Vernon had simply stood up, grabbed Harry by the collar of his shirt, and socked him._

 _It seemed inevitable when he was finally caught sneaking back in one night by an angry, purple-faced, and very drunk Vernon Dursley._

 _He remembered very little of it, later, only remembered being cursed at and spat at and slammed against the banister of the stairs, remembered meaty hands closing around his windpipe, squeezing, crushing, as he choked for air and scrabbled uselessly at the hands for release, remembered Aunt Petunia screeching from far off, and his whole body screaming and his vision going black, and Uncle Vernon's red, red face—_

 _And then, suddenly, the hands released him, and Harry bent double, gasping for air, and Aunt Petunia screamed, and he looked down, and Uncle Vernon was lying on the ground, clutching his chest in pain, his face very, very red, and all three Durleys were staring at Harry in horror, like he was a **monster** —_

 _Harry ran._

 _Ran all the way back to Arabella's house and nearly pounded her door down, sobbing, frightened terrified— **Dear God, had he killed his uncle?** –_

 _And Arabella listened to his wheezy, snot-filled, incoherent story, eyes blazing as she looked at the bruises on his throat._

 _"I've been very selfish with you, Harry," She said, grabbing his face in her hands. "I saw you on that broom, saw your talent, and I wanted to be the one to make you into something great. I'm sorry. I should have let you go sooner. You didn't deserve this."_

 _She wiped his tears with her hands, and then disappeared into the back room. She returned with his mother's ratty old broom, which she thrust into his hands, and a piece of paper with a name and address written on it. "My sister," she said, giving him the piece of paper, "Ask her for a job. Tell her I sent you."_

 _Minutes later, they stood on the curb._

 _"Hold out your right arm," She told Harry._

 _He did, and moments later, a large, triple-decker, garish purple bus whooshed into existence in front of them so quickly that Harry stumbled backwards in surprise._

 _Arabella hugged him tight, and then held him away from her. "Don't tell anyone your last name, okay?" She demanded._

 _When he didn't respond, she shook him slightly until he nodded._

 _"Go get 'em, Harry," she whispered, and then pushed him towards the bus._

* * *

Hermione had finished the paperwork she'd needed to get done that morning and all that was left for her to do was to turn it in to her supervisor. She stacked the parchment neatly into a folder and grabbed her cloak and badge, casting a look around the bullpen at the empty cubicles— apparently none of the other interns had been crazy enough to come in on a Saturday.

It was a short walk to Bagman's office. She knocked, but there was no answer, so she dropped the stack of parchment in the box attached to the door before heading to the elevators and pressing the button for the first floor. She'd finished earlier than expected; maybe she could go surprise Ron at the stadium, she mused.

The elevator doors dinged open and she heard raised voices. She almost ignored it, was already turning to the fireplaces, when she recognized one of the voices.

"— _please, you have listen to me!_ _"_

"You want to report _what?_ "

Hermione walked closer to get a better view. It was an uncharacteristically quiet day, and only one witch was on duty at the front desk. Said witch was gawking at a harried-looking man in a familiarly shabby cloak. Hermione couldn't clearly see his face from her vantage point.

"Fraudulent impersonation!" The man said, splaying his hands against the desk, "Maybe kidnapping, too!"

"…Of Sirius Black," The woman stated, "Owner of the Wimbourne Wasps."

"Yes," The man confirmed, nodding his head urgently, "We have to search for him! And Harry— _Oh God,_ Harry!"

"Harry who?" The witch asked, inspecting her fingernails and looking rather bored.

"Harry Potter!" The man burst out.

Something whirred in Hermione's brain. _Why did that name ring a bell?_

The witch let out a short, derisive laugh. "Of course," she said, looking up from her fingernails "Silly me. Who else would we be talking about?" She folded her hands, looking down at the distressed man. "So let me get this straight," she drawled, "Someone is impersonating Sirius Black and may possibly have kidnapped the Boy-Who-Lived, is that right?"

The man nodded.

"And on what grounds are you making these ridiculous claims?" The witch asked, sounding irritated.

"I— He— Sirius is my best friend!" The man said desperately, "I met with him the other day, and I swear—"

" _You_ met with your 'best friend' _Sirius Black_ the other day," She interjected skeptically. "Right," She pressed a button, "Security—"

"No, wait, _please,_ just look into it— Sirius has custody of Harry; we have to make sure he's okay—"

The witch lifted her finger from the button. "You're saying Sirius Black has custody of Harry Potter," she dead-panned, "Why not _you_ , since you're apparently so friendly with all of them?"

"I— I couldn't get custody, legally," The man bit out. He shifted, and Hermione could see his face at last; it was Professor Lupin!— "Because I— I'm a werewolf."

"Agh!" The witch screeched, slamming her hand down on the button immediately, "SECURITY!"

And that was when Hermione couldn't possibly not intervene. "That's enough," She declared, marching out from the shadows.

Lupin looked at her in surprise— "Hermione Granger?"

Hermione just waved her badge at the front desk witch and at the security wizard who had emerged and was glaring menacingly at the man— "I think I just witnessed a clear-cut case of discrimination on _Ministry grounds_ by a _Ministry employee_ due to an immutable characteristic. I believe that's a violation of the Decree of Reasonable Protections under the Wizards Afflicted by Dark Creatures Act, isn't that right, Runcorn?" She rounded on the hulking security wizard, who nodded uncertainly at her in answer, shifting on his large feet. "In any case," Hermione said, pivoting back to fix the witch at the front desk— her nametag read 'Donna'— with a superior look, "Mister Lupin is with me. Sorry about that, Professor," she beckoned to her former Defense professor with a kind smile, "We can talk in my office. Good Day, _Doris_." She turned, her cloak swishing, and heard Lupin's uncertain footsteps behind her.

* * *

 **A/N: Okay so tbh, I'm not 100% happy about how this turned out, but there you go. Let me know what y'all thought!** **J**

 **Love and kisses,**

 **OS**


	8. Jebediah aka Hermione is a detective

"I don't actually have an office," Hermione told Lupin apologetically as she led her old professor back to the deserted bullpen, "I'm just an intern. But I'd like to help, if I can."

"Congratulations all the same," Remus Lupin said, giving her a tired smile as he fiddled with his visitor's badge. "These Ministry internships are pretty competitive."

"I've had some brilliant teachers," she responded, nodding in his direction. They reached her desk, and Lupin smiled faintly at the moving picture of her and Ron in the lone frame. Hermione pulled out Penelope Clearwater's empty chair for her professor and sat down in her own to look up at him expectantly.

He sighed, running a regretful hand through his thinning hair. His kindly, scarred face looked much older than it had in her third year; unemployment had not been kind to him. "You always were a brilliant student," he muttered, almost to himself. "I really wish I didn't have to bring you in on this, Hermione," he said quietly. "But I am— well, I suppose I'm desperate. I think— _I know_ someone's impersonating Sirius Black, but no one will _listen_ to me. And I don't know what that means for Sirius, or his godson."

"Fortunately," Hermione said lightly, "I've got a free afternoon, a friendly ear, and a head for a good mystery. I've read all the Agatha Christie books."

"And all the Sherlock Holmes stories?" Lupin asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"Of course," she answered seriously. "From the beginning, if you would, Professor?"

...

"I don't have even close to the kind of clearance we would need to even attempt to figure this out," Hermione said, brow furrowed in thought, after Lupin had finished his story.

He sighed, deflating, but knew that he really had no right to be disappointed. After all, what had he expected? She was a sixteen-year-old intern; _of course_ she didn't have clearance—

But before he could so much as sag broodingly into his chair, she added, "But I might know someone who does," and then her eyes were on him, assessing. She hummed thoughtfully. "Actually, this might just work out perfectly. She has a soft spot for 'professor-types.'"

 _"What?"_

"Nothing, Professor," Hermione said with a decidedly Marauderish grin that put him instantly on his guard. "But I think I have a friend who can get us what we need. She'll be in the office, I think—" And then she was up and out of her chair, gesturing for him to follow.

He did, after a split-second hesitation.

They went up two floors before entering the Auror department; Remus felt a pit in his stomach as he recognized Peter's former place of business. He fidgeted anxiously with his visitor's pass.

...

They reached the Auror department and Hermione was pleased to note that Tonks's card was still in the 'Working' column, meaning she was still in the building.

Moody's team's shared office was second on the left, and the door was slightly ajar. Hermione peeked her head in.

As luck would have it, Tonks was just walking over to punch out. Her auror robes were slung over one arm, and she was wearing a faded Weird Sisters tee-shirt and a pair of absolutely destroyed jeans. Her hair was spiky and inky blue.

"Wotcher, Hermione!" Tonks called in cheerful greeting, mid-stride, "Wha—" Her eyes wandered curiously over to Lupin and she tripped on thin air, arms pin-wheeling as she fell forward—

Lupin jumped forward to steady the toppling auror with lightning-fast reflexes— _werewolf reflexes,_ Hermione realized— but relinquished her immediately once she'd found solid footing.

It had been enough, though, Hermione thought with slightly hysterical approval. The curious look in Tonks's eyes had melted into something else; she looked the man up and down with frank appreciation as he shifted nervously. "Damn, Hermione," Tonks said, her hair rapidly shifting in color from blue to a dusky sort of magenta and curling into a messy pixie cut, "Who is _this_ tall drink of water?"

Lupin straightened as if shocked, his face rapidly coloring.

"Old professor of mine," Hermione said airily, noticing the way Tonks's gaze sharpened with undisguised interest.

"Care to make an introduction?" Tonks asked, licking her lips, her eyes not leaving the rather anxious-looking Lupin.

"Actually, I can do you one better," Hermione said, hardly believing what she was doing— she blamed Ginny's influence, wholeheartedly, the girl was a red-headed, match-making menace— "In exchange for a small favor, of course."

"Oh?" Tonks raised an eyebrow. "How positively Slytherin of you, Granger." Still, her eyes did not stray from the professor.

"I promised Professor Lupin lunch," Hermione continued, cautiously buoyed by Tonks's obvious interest. "But as I'm hoping I'm about to be busy with something else, maybe you could keep him company?"

Lupin made a choked sound.

"Hmm," Tonks said, a predatory smile unfurling across her face. "What's your price?"

Hermione's heart hammered. "Um, access to your badge for twenty minutes, no questions asked?"

At this, Tonks did turn, looking absolutely shocked. She barked out a disbelieving laugh. "Are you barking, Hermione? I can't just—" She stopped and then rolled her eyes, her dissent apparently crumbling in a moment. "Fine, _ugh_ , you're lucky I like you… and that I haven't gotten laid in centuries."

Lupin had a violent coughing attack, behind them.

Hermione blinked dumbly back at Tonks, not quite believing her half-baked plan to essentially pimp out her professor had worked, as Tonks pulled the lanyard off from around her neck and handed it to her.

"Twenty minutes. Don't do anything I wouldn't do," Tonks warned—which, Hermione reflected, left some rather large loopholes— and then grabbed Lupin by the collar— the werewolf gulped, sending a rather panicked glance at Hermione—and hauled him towards the exit. "Have you been to the canteen?" Hermione heard her ask him conversationally as she tripped through the department door.

Hermione gripped the badge in her hand and let out an incredulous, slightly hysterical half-laugh-half-snort. Was _this_ how the other half lived? She moved rather dazedly in the direction of the file room, feeling almost ashamed at how her heart was racing with the thrill of this forbidden adventure. Well, she _was_ a Gryffindor, after all.

The file room was locked and deserted, but pressing Tonks's badge to the door granted her immediate access.

She set off towards the wall of B's. _Black, Sirius._

Twenty minutes. She could do this.

* * *

The Firebolt's acceleration was insanely responsive, and when Harry pressed himself forward—letting the side of his nose brush the finely polished wooden handle—and skimmed the clouds with it, body molded to the broomstick, he could hear it humming as if it was pulsing with his own heartbeat, as if it was a part of him.

The air was cold, and Harry wasn't quite dressed for a flight. The whooshing wind was loud in his ears and buffeted him in his face, whipping the tears out of his streaming eyes.

He flew for a while, not intending to go in any specific direction, but when his legs started to go numb— his white-knuckled hands had long since lost all feeling—he angled the broomstick down, and realized, as he descended from the clouds and caught sight of gleaming metal hoops, that he had unconsciously sketched the flight he and Ginny had made yesterday.

As he drew nearer to the hoops he saw that he wasn't alone. Two familiar red-haired figures in scarlet robes were batting an erratic bludger at each other up and down the pitch. The Twins!

Harry dove down to meet them, rolling gracefully to avoid the bludger that someone (George, probably, judging by that left backhand) shot reflexively at him.

"Henry!" Most-Likely-Fred exclaimed happily, tackling the errant bludger with both arms. "Sick broom! What brings you, mate? There isn't a game today."

"Is that a Firebolt?" George asked, examining the broom with interest.

"Thanks, yeah," Harry shifted on the Firebolt, suddenly self-conscious. "…It was a gift." His eyes stung under their scrutiny— they were wet and probably red, but that could be chalked down to the wind— "I'm just out for a fly," he said with a shrug. "What about you two?"

The Twins looked at each other and then back at him.

"You can't tell anyone this," Fred warned him mock-seriously, raising one ginger eyebrow at him as his brother mimed locking his lips, "But—"

"I've got a meeting today," George chimed happily.

"Which means that _we've_ got a meeting today," Fred explained. "At the Wasps HQ. Right now."

"Well, in an hour," George clarified.

They gave him identical chapped grins.

"The Wimbledon Wasps?" Harry asked, after a second to process. He looked back and forth between the beaming twins. "Wait, like a try-out? That's amazing, you guys!"

"We tried out last week, actually," Fred said. "It wasn't the best."

"Fred got knocked out cold," George agreed, his eyes twinkling.

"And _George_ took a bludger to the head and lost hearing in his left ear—"

"Poppy says that she healed it completely, but I swear it still doesn't feel the same," George complained, tapping the skin below his ear.

"Good ol' Poppy," Fred put in with a wistful smile.

"I still hear ringing in my left ear at night," George said, frowning.

Fred grinned slowly, almost reluctantly. "Actually, that was me," He admitted. "I put a tiny bell under your bunk—"

George whipped his head around, indignant. "You bastard!" He grabbed for the bludger still secured in Fred's arms, "I thought I was going deaf!"

Harry laughed. "So what's the meeting for, then?" He asked indulgently

"Dunno," George answered, shrugging, still grappling with Fred over the struggling bludger. "The letter was only addressed to me. Maybe they want to sign me for reserves? _Geroff, Fred—"_

 _"No,"_ Fred grunted, clutching tightly to the bludger and trying to shake his brother off, _"Maybe—they—"_ He gasped for air; George had begun tickling him, and he shook with laughter— _"Maybe they want to—to apologize for—for George's ear—!"_ He cackled, dropping the bludger to clutch at his sides.

George dove after the bludger and threw it at his brother—Fred let out an _"Oof!"_ as it collided with his stomach— with an unimpressed look. "You're not nearly as funny as you think you are, Fred."

"Please, brother mine," Fred scoffed, unleashing the bludger only to send it sailing into the sky with a crack of his bat. "We have the exact same sense of humor."

"So If they offer you a spot and not Fred will you take it?" Harry asked George curiously.

They both shook their heads immediately. "We work better together," George said, shrugging. "It was just an off day for both of us. And the whole atmosphere was pretty weird."

"Yeah, that Sirius Black was a right menace—"

"Wait, you're meeting with Sirius Black?" Harry interrupted, immediately recalling the friendly, slobbering mutt from last night.

"I'd reckon so," George nodded. "He was at the tryouts, refereeing. He didn't call _any_ fouls, even the illegal headshot that took Fred out."

"Right dodgy fellow," Fred agreed, "It was probably thirty degrees outside and he never took off his gloves!"The bludger came whisitling back around and Fred dispatched it with one solid whack.

Harry sat back slightly on his broom, appraising them cautiously as an idea began to take shape, "…So…You guys like pranks, right?"

 _"Do we like pranks?!"_

Harry shrugged awkwardly, raising his hands with a grimace.

Both twins gasped. George put a hand to his heart as if wounded, and Fred put a protective arm around his brother— "Don't worry, Georgie, I won't let the bad man hurt you,"

"No, it's okay Fred," George said bravely, letting go of his chest to put a steadying arm in front of Fred as Harry looked on skeptically, "It's our fault—"

Fred hushed him. "Don't blame yourself, George—"

"No," George said strongly, "It _is_ our fault. We were so caught up in the game yesterday that we never got the chance to give Henry here the full Weasley experience…"

Harry crossed his arms, cringing with foreboding, "It's really okay, guys—"

But suddenly he had a rangy red-headed twin at each arm, each looking down at him with a slightly manic grin.

Fred stuck his hand under Harry's nose. "Shake my hand," he ordered eagerly.

"Do it," George encouraged, face gleeful.

"Right, er, no?" Harry saw their dubious looks and tried again. He covered his hand with his sleeve and gently pushed Fred's hand away, scooting his broom backwards as he did so in case something exploded. He disentangled his remaining arm from George's insistent grip and laughed weakly. "…That sounds like a lot of fun, guys, but maybe next time? I've got an—er— alternate proposition?"

They exchanged a look, then flew back slightly, crossing their arms. "We're listening," they said in unison.

"Right, er," Harry began, scratching his neck awkwardly. Now that he was actually pitching his idea it seemed like an incredibly bad one. "Um, so, well, _if_ you decide not to sign and, I guess, only if you decide you're okay with burning bridges and what not—"

Identical grins had unraveled across the twins' faces.

Harry paused, his cheeks burning, "Er, what?"

"I _love_ burning bridges," George said reverently.

"Just _loves_ it," Fred agreed, jerking a thumb to indicate the former, "It's his favorite pastime."

"Bit of a problem, really," George admitted.

"But I love him anyway," Fred finished loyally.

"Right," Harry said, scrunching up his nose in confusion. "Um, you know I was speaking in the metaphorical sense, right—?"

"Psh," Fred flicked a hand forward and George rolled his eyes. "Metaphorical, Shmetaphorical, that's what I always say, right Gred?"

"Right, Forge!"

"See, I don't actually want you guys to burn any bridges though," Harry rushed to say, panicking a little bit, "Actually, you know what, forget it, it's fine."

Instantly they were each at one of his elbows again, eyes wide.

"Ah, don't be like that, Henry," Fred said.

"We're only messing with you," George agreed, but then he winked, which didn't exactly bespeak of trustworthiness to Harry— but then again, what did he have to lose?

"Okay," Harry started again. "Um, Sirius Black has this dog, right? A big, black shaggy one. Really friendly."

The twins nodded slowly, as if waiting for him to get to the point.

"But the thing is," Harry said. "He treats it really poorly. It's got this terrible metal collar around its neck and its super skinny so I bet he doesn't feed it well, and I think he might even _hit_ it because— _what's so funny?"_

A smirking George hit his brother lightly across the chest and Fred snickered. "So you want us to mount a rescue mission, is that right?"

Harry's cheeks felt hot. "Look, if you don't want to—"

"No, no," Fred interrupted seriously. "No, I understand. Animal abuse is terrible."

George nodded his head solemnly. "Yes, I don't know if you know this, but we actually have three magical beasts ourselves."

"And they're like _family_ ," Fred stepped in.

"Oh yes," George continued, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. "If anything happened to Percy, Ronald, or Ginevra, why, I don't know _what_ I'd do—"

Fred guffawed.

Harry frowned, feeling like there was a joke he wasn't quite getting, "Who's Percy?"

"He's our older brother," Fred said petulantly, obviously upset that he hadn't properly appreciated the joke.

"Yeah," George said thoughtfully. "I forgot that you haven't actually met the rest of the family yet. It feels like you've been part of the team forever. You'll have to come 'round for dinner sometime. Mum would love you."

"Ah, Georgie," Fred said, smile devilish. "There's plenty of time for getting to know the in-laws _after_ the wedding."

"What!?" Harry spluttered.

"We're referring, of course, to your courtship with our younger sibling," Fred said sternly, and suddenly both of the boys were in Harry's face, looking down at him disapprovingly.

"We just want to make sure that your intentions are pure," George said, squinting at him threateningly.

Harry clutched the handle of the Firebolt, his palms sweating. Unbidden, Ginny's face, hair mussed and cheeks rosy from the wind, flashed into his mind. She gave him a coy wink. He felt his own cheeks flush as he scrabbled through his thoughts for something to say— "Oh I don't— I mean, Ginny—"

"Oh Ginny can take care of herself," Fred waved him off, smiling broadly, "I was talking about Ronald."

Harry noisily exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding as the twins cracked up. "Har har," he said, amused despite himself. "Back to the dog—"

George mimed wiping a tear from his eye as Fred cackled beside him. "We'll get you that dog," he promised.

"Only if you don't sign and you can do it safely, I don't want you two getting in trouble or anything—"

"Oh Henry," Fred said, "Trouble is my middle name."

George winked at him winningly, "And _mine_ is Jebediah."

"Speaking of our Lord and Savior," Fred began.

"That's me," George raised a hand.

"We've got a meeting to get to!" Fred continued, flashing Harry a smile. "Good day, fine sir!"

"How exactly is 'Jebediah' a segue into that?" Harry questioned, his mouth tugging into an unwilling smile.

"Don't question it," George said dismissively, reaching out to pat him on the cheek. "See you later, Dursley, and seriously— take good care of my baby sister."

"Ginny can look after herself," Harry returned. Then he grinned, "But I will. Good luck at your meeting!"

* * *

Hermione exited the file room twenty minutes later with a crumpled piece of paper clenched in her fist, her heart pounding. She checked that the corridor was clear and then beeped herself out with Tonks's badge. She headed quickly back to the Auror Department but Tonks wasn't in the office, so Hermione clocked out for her and hurried back down to the bullpen, mulling over the information she'd just learned.

 _Dursley. Vernon and Petunia Dursley._ Why did those names sound so familiar?

"Finally!" A familiar voice exclaimed when Hermione turned the corner.

Hermione looked up, startled, shoving the crumpled piece of paper into her robe pocket, to see a restless-looking Ginny Weasley sitting on her desk in shorts and a Harpies jersey, holding a giant Sharpie and the photo of Hermione and Ron, and swinging her bare, freckled legs.

Ginny set down the photo and capped her marker unashamedly. Hermione sighed when she glanced down and saw that Ginny had doodled a mustache, triangular eyebrows, and a devil's tail and horns on Ron.

"Where have you been?" Ginny asked impatiently, but before Hermione could even open her mouth, "Never mind. I have to talk to you about boy stuff."

Hermione raised an eyebrow at her friend and slipped the defaced photo into her top drawer. "Shouldn't you be at camp? Don't you have a match today?"

"Scrimmage," Ginny clarified, scrunching up her nose. "It was this morning. We lost. I'm on break right now. Said I had to visit my dad." She fished her visitor's pass out of her pocket to show Hermione. It had 'Family Reunion' lettered across it. "But Ron said you were in the office today and I just had to talk to you. So. My cute boy. What do you think about him?"

Hermione tried to put the names Vernon and Petunia Dursley out of her mind and struggled to remember Ginny's most recent romantic interest. "Michael Corner?" She asked.

 _"No,"_ Ginny said, tapping her badge on her thigh impatiently. "Harry. Harry Dursley. You met him yesterday. What did you think?"

Hermione jolted to attention so quickly Ginny startled and knocked over the pencil cup on Hermione's desk. "Merlin, Hermione, what the hell?"

 _Harry Potter. Vernon and Petunia Dursley… **Harry Dursley.**_

She quickly flashed back to the boy she'd met last night, Ron's friend with the green eyes and round glasses. He'd been kind, bashful, and funny. She'd loved him instantly; he was like the brother she always wished she had.

How had she not put the names together herself before now? _He_ was the missing Harry Potter and… _he could be in danger._

"He's lovely," She said to Ginny, getting to her feet abruptly. "In fact, why don't we go see him now?"

"Now?" Ginny asked dubiously, putting the pencils back into the little cup. "Don't you— _Professor Lupin?"_

Hermione turned, and sure enough, a red-faced and decidedly more rumpled-looking Lupin was walking stiffly towards them; Tonks was chattering away on his arm, her hair in a pretty violet-colored bob.

"Miss Weasley," Lupin acknowledged, nodding at Ginny.

Hermione tossed Tonks the badge and lanyard, and the auror uncurled from Lupin's side to catch them deftly. "Thank you so much, Tonks," Hermione said quickly, "I clocked you out."

"Believe me," Tonks said, her smile wicked. "The pleasure was _all mine."_

Ginny made a choked, surprised noise, and Lupin closed his eyes briefly as if asking the gods for patience.

Hermione shifted on her feet, suddenly worried that she'd pushed it too far, but when he opened his eyes, they were decidedly amused— and there was something fond in them when he looked down at Tonks. Hermione blinked. Perhaps she was more of a matchmaker than she'd originally thought, she mused, briefly side-tracked.

And then Lupin coughed pointedly, and Hermione shook herself off the tangent and gave him a significant look. "Professor, I know Ron would love to see you. Will you come down to the Harpies camp with me and Ginny?"

He gave her a confused look but nodded, straightening his robes. Tonks pressed a quick kiss to the side of his cheek, and his face softened. "Have a good afternoon, Dora," He said gently, raising a hand in goodbye.

* * *

 **A/N: Again, I don't totally love this chapter, but here you go. We're heading slowly but surely towards finals week at school and I wanted to get another chapter out before I got too bogged down with everything!**

 **Feel free to drop me a line or two, tell me your thoughts :)**

 **XOXO,**

 **OS**


	9. 2 Crises aka Don't Insult Clan Weasley

**AN: New chapter! Happy Summer, my luvs :)**

* * *

Harry was drifting unhurriedly on his back on the new Firebolt when a distinctive scarlet shape cut across the clear blue sky.

He sat up, and as it came closer, the shape revealed itself to be none other than Oliver Wood in a muddy red quidditch kit.

Harry waved in dull surprise at the Puddlemere keeper. Perhaps today he was destined to reunite, one by one, with yesterday's QuidSwitch team, he mused. If he stayed here long enough, maybe Angelina Johnson and Katie Bell would show up.

 _…Or Ginny,_ he thought, his spirits rising slightly— Ginny, with her freckles and soft lips and perfect Porskoff Ploys.

Oliver raised his eyebrows and returned the wave, looping closer on his sturdy-looking Comet. "Harry," he greeted in faint surprise. "I didn't think anyone would be out here." His eyes sketched the length of the Firebolt and his eyes widened. He reached out a hand, "Merlin, ain't she a beauty! I— may I?"

"Sure," Harry said, moving forward so that his broom was parallel to Oliver's, but with the bristles pointing the opposite direction. He scooted back on his broom and then reached out to grab the front of the Comet's handle. Oliver reached over to grasp the front of Harry's broom, and the sleeve of his robe rid up, revealing a white bandage bound tightly around his wrist.

Harry paused, staring.

"One, two, three— switch!" Oliver called, oblivious, and Harry quickly rolled off his broom and onto Oliver's.

The exchange of weight was quick, and the leap through the air set his heart racing with the thrill as he seated himself on the Comet.

Next to him Oliver whooped and tried a barrel roll, his head jerking in whiplash from the strength of the Firebolt's response. Harry laughed.

Wood looked up at Harry and the delight in his eyes was almost childlike. "She's gorgeous, Harry," He shouted, sounding very Scottish. "Perfect seeker's broom. The maneuverability, the acceleration—" He leaned into another roll and surfaced with his whole face shining, "Absolutely incredible!"

"How about a race?" Harry challenged, swooping down next to him on the Comet. "Hoops to hoops and back?"

Oliver looked appraisingly at the far hoops and then back at Harry, his eyes alight with a manic, competitive gleam. "You're on, Dursley!"

"Get ready to eat my dust, Wood!" Harry hollered back, shocked by his own energy as he zipped the short distance up to the hoops, Oliver laughing in surprised indignance at his heels.

"You do realize I play professionally," Wood said challengingly as they squared up at the center hoop.

"Do you?" Harry asked agreeably, not even sparing him a sidelong glance, "Pity I'm about to crush you, then."

He adjusted his grip on the broom as the ten-second timer on Wood's wand counted down out loud. The circumference of the Comet's handle was significantly wider, but he found it gave him a measure of control and stability that the Firebolt compromised on for speed and maneuverability. This was a keeper's broom, designed for sturdiness and support rather than speed.

But, Harry reflected as the timer went off and both of them shot off like bullets, hollering unintelligible insults at each other— unbeknownst to even himself until very recently, he had been flying a keeper's broom for years.

They reached the far hoop nearly neck-and-neck, with Wood slightly ahead, but Harry knew the turn was everything. Wood, as Harry had predicted, chose not to roll, instead flying a tight hairpin through and around the hoop, but Harry leveraged his weight against the sturdy broom-handle to execute a slick, fluid one-armed flip to re-seat himself on the underside of the broom as he yanked it back with him. He twisted the handle to pull himself right side up again even as he zoomed off, clearing the lip of the ring well ahead of Wood.

Wood recovered distance quickly— it _was_ a Firebolt, after all— but Harry was certain, as he squeezed the broom, the edge of his glasses cutting into the skin near his eye from being wedged so tightly against the broomstick, eking every last ounce of speed from the woody oak handle, that his lead would suffice—

Sure enough, he whizzed past the silver hoop first, Wood only at his hip.

They skidded across the sky to slow down, and Harry released the broom handle with some difficulty. Laughing breathlessly, he turned to Wood, who was looking at him, almost in awe.

"Now _that_ was flying," Wood said between heavy breaths. His eyes were bright, his smile almost giddy. "I haven't raced like that in years!"

Harry grinned back at him, feeling giddy himself as he fought to catch his breath. "Good flying yourself," Harry said, and meant it. "You would've had me for sure if you'd rolled."

"I've always been rubbish at rolls," Wood admitted. "And it's a much shorter broom than I'm used to. Thought I could make up for it with the Firebolt's speed."

Harry nodded. As keeper, Oliver probably didn't need to utilize rolls as much as chasers or seekers.

"But, even if I'd rolled, I don't think I would've had you," Wood continued thoughtfully. "What was it you did, back there? I only caught some of it in my peripheral, but it worked _brilliantly—"_

Harry shrugged self-consciously. "I've flown a keeper's Silver Arrow most of my life— it's a hand-me-down— but I'm a seeker. It's a pain to do a classic forward roll on a keeper's broom, so I guess I sort of just learned to use the broom's strengths. The flip's to redirect momentum, and then I just snap it backwards and twist out from the underside of the broom. Once you get the hang of it, I've found it's faster than tucking into a forward roll. Less distance for the broom to cover."

"Brilliant," Wood insisted. He studied Harry eagerly, leaning forward on his broom-grip. "Have you tried it on the Firebolt, yet? I think we could make a few modifications—"

Wood's right wrist buckled without warning and the broom dipped alarmingly. Harry instinctively grabbed the handle to steady it.

Oliver looked down at the Firebolt. His empty right hand, held aloft, was shaking. Harry copied him, staring down at Wood's white-knuckled left hand which gripped the handle tightly. Harry's own hand, rough and brown and steady, held the nose of the broom securely.

"Here," Harry said, tugging their broomsticks closer.

Wood released the Firebolt with his left hand and grabbed for the Comet.

"Have you got it?" Harry asked. Wood nodded. "Alright, on three. One, two, three—"

They switched broomsticks again, Harry sliding easily onto the Firebolt and then reaching out once more to grab the end of Wood's broom handle, just in case.

Wood was still only holding the broom one-handedly. His bandaged right hand was clenched firmly in a fist.

Harry eyed it and then looked up at Wood, who was white-faced.

"I thought the healer fixed the break," Harry said quietly. "What happened?"

"She did," Wood answered, his voice hoarse. "It should be perfectly fine. But it's been weird since last night— it did the same thing when I was brushing my teeth this morning— it just went limp and I dropped my toothbrush. I panicked and had it re-examined by a different healer immediately, but she couldn't find anything wrong with it. She told me it was probably psychosomatic." He gave Harry a terrified look. "I could be kicked off the _team,_ Harry. I shouldn't have played yesterday; we're not supposed to play in street matches after we've signed, it's in the contract—"

"Don't panic," Harry said, thinking. "You flew perfectly just now. Maybe it _is_ a psychological thing. Have you got a quaffle?"

Wood nodded. "There's a ball crate in the shed," he said, still white-faced.

"Okay," Harry said, gently releasing the Comet's broom handle. "We'll just toss back and forth for a bit, yeah? And if we need to we can go see a muggle doctor. Hermione— she's Ron's girlfriend— well, her parents are dentists."

At Oliver's confused look he clarified, "Like teeth healers? Anyway I'm sure they know someone, and since they're muggle we could keep it under wraps."

Oliver sucked in a breath and let it out noisily as he nodded. "Okay. Alright. Let's get that quaffle."

…

Harry flew down to the shed and was in the process of wrangling the ball crate out when, for the third time that day, a shape hurtled down towards him from the sky.

This one was small and had wings and a beak.

"Hey girl," Harry greeted the fluffy grey owl, dropping the crate. "Or are you a boy? What've you got there?" He removed the letter.

 _'To Harry P.'_ was scrawled across the back of the envelope, ' _From R. Wazlib.'_

"Huh," Harry said.

* * *

George cleared his throat quietly and rapped gently on the open conference room door, ignoring the cheerful and inventive curses Fred was peppering at him through the earpiece he'd donned. Fred, under the invisibility cloak they'd nicked at school, would be breaking into Black's office to search for the dog. George, as was customary, would be the distraction. He waved the contract he'd been given by the receptionist at Sirius Black. "You wanted to talk to me about the reserve contract?"

Sirius Black, gowned and gloved as ever, pointedly waited several seconds, sifting uselessly and unhurriedly through a stack of parchment, before finally looking up as if he had just noticed him. "Ah, Weasley, was it? Come in."

 _Bastard,_ George thought, affixing a polite smile to his face as he reached out his right hand to shake. "Yes, George Weasley. Nice to meet you again, sir." Fred made a gagging noise in the earpiece to tell George exactly what he thought of that greeting, and George bit his lip to force down the smile. Black ignored the hand, instead surveying him through beady, condescending eyes. His face was slightly ruddier than George recalled it being, and his hair slightly wispier.

 _"I'm here, George."_ Fred said through the earpiece. _"Merlin, this bastard is either paranoid or he's hiding something— Time to test out the lock-crackers we made—"_

The man broke the eye contact, coughing slightly, and began rummaging through a pocket in his robe. He withdrew a flask and took a generous gulp, wincing at the taste. George raised an amused eyebrow with grudging respect.

"Bit early to be drinking, isn't it sir?" George asked cheekily. He heard Fred laugh out loud at that in his earpiece amidst the clicking of the lock-cracker. _"Is he really?"_ Fred asked delightedly. _"What a miserable bastard."_ George ignored him.

Sirius Black wiped his mouth with his sleeve and glared at him. "Bit of a mouth on you too, eh? Just like your brother. I met him yesterday; must run in the family."

There was a clicking noise through the earpiece. _"I'm in, George— **shit!"**_

George started almost imperceptibly. His fingers clenched at the edge of the contract. "What's that?" He asked through gritted teeth behind his smile, directing his words at Fred but his smile at Sirius Black.

"I said your brother's got a bit of a mouth on him too," Black said obliviously, taking another large gulp from the flask and making a face. "But I guess a little attitude is good in a beater. Have you got any questions about the contract? My secretary can walk you through—"

"Ah, you've met a brother of mine, how wonderful!" George interrupted pleasantly. "Which one? _Fred?"_ He demanded. He could hear his brother's heavy breathing and the sound of rummaging on the other side of the earpiece.

 _"Sorry, George. This guy is into some weird shit—"_

Black wrinkled his nose, looking almost rodent-like. "Not that one. Henry or something or other," He waved off-handedly. "Younger than you, scrawny. Bit of a shithead. He was drunk off his arse—"

 _"Sweet baby Merlin's undescended testicles,"_ Fred swore. It was one of George's favorite curses, but there was a note of urgency in Fred's voice that chilled George to the bone. There was the sound of scrambling and what sounded like a muffled yip. Fred made a sniffing sound. _"George, something is really, really not right here._ _I... I think I know what he's drinking. Merlin's saggy_ _—_ _"_

"Ronald, probably," George told Sirius absently, concentrating on Fred's voice. "He's the youngest boy."

"Really?" Sirius Black said slowly, sitting up in his chair. "So you don't have a brother named Henry, then? There's no Henry Weasley?"

 _"George,"_ Fred hissed warningly in his ear.

George blinked to attention, mentally re-playing Black's message. "Oh, Henry?" he asked slowly. "Right, yeah, sorry he's our, um, cousin."

Sirius nodded shrewdly, his fingers steepled as he studied George. Then suddenly he leaned back in his chair. "So, the contract…"

 _"Nice save,"_ Fred chuckled in his ear. _"Now get out of there. I've got the dog, but I think we're going to have to come back. There's some really weird shit going on here."_

"Right," George said, getting abruptly to his feet. "I can't sign this contract."

Black uncrossed his ankles and sat up, looking surprised. "Why not?"

"You insulted the sacred Clan of Weasley, and that is something I cannot forgive," George stated, deadpan. With a flourish, he tore the parchment cleanly in half and started for the door.

 _"You may want to keep it,"_ Fred advised, chortling. _"We might need an excuse to come back."_

George was already halfway to the door, the parchment in two pieces on the ground. He turned awkwardly. Sirius Black was gaping at him from his chair.

"Right," George repeated, pasting a winning smile back on his face. "Perhaps I was too hasty. I'll just take this home, think on it, talk it over with the fam and whatnot." He bent and picked up the two pieces of the contract. When he straightened, he waved the parchment halves at Black. "I'll be in touch," he promised, winking as he exited.

Fred was all but crying with laughter in the earpiece.

* * *

"Hermione!" There was a blur of orange and then she was engulfed in the slightly sweaty arms of one Ronald Weasley, newly-anointed boyfriend. "Thank Merlin you're here, Hermione. I have two crisis situations— Professor Lupin!"

"Good to see you Ronald," Lupin said warmly, and Ron reached around her waist to shake Lupin's hand.

Hermione loved Ronald, but when he'd been out in the sun all day as was clearly the case now, he could get rather…ripe. She wrinkled her nose, still clutched to Ron's side as he happily chatted with Lupin.

Fortunately, Ginny noticed her plight, and after shooting her a teasing grin, took pity on her. "Oh, let go of her, you big nerd," Ginny said. "I can smell you from over here! Her poor nose."

"Right, sorry," Ron said, relinquishing her immediately, his neck and ears flushing endearingly scarlet.

"No harm done," Hermione said warmly, but took a decent-sized step back for good measure. "Now what're these crises you need handling?"

He went somber. "Harry jumped out a window—"

"WHAT?!" Lupin, Hermione, and Ginny all shouted at the same time.

Ron looked at them in surprise, eyes wide. "Wait— oh," he said sheepishly, scratching his neck. "Sorry— er— he had a broom. He jumped out of a window. With a broom. And flew away. And no one knows where to find him." He grimaced at them awkwardly. "He had a broom, though. So he's fine…I mean, probably."

Hermione put a hand against her rapidly-beating heart. "God, Ron," she admonished. "Don't _do_ that." She looked around. Lupin was white as a sheet, and Ginny's lips were pressed in a thin line, her freckles stark against her face.

"Why the _hell_ did he jump out of a window?" Ginny demanded.

"With a broom," Ron reminded them hurriedly, and then to Ginny's impatient growl— "I don't know! Merlin! I don't know what's going on in his head! I think he might've had a row with Hestia— she'd called him up to her office—"

"We need to find him," Hermione said. "Professor Lupin and I— we have reason to think he might be in danger."

"More danger than jumping out a window?" Ginny asked shrilly.

Hermione grabbed her shoulder. Ginny looked at her with wide eyes. "It's okay. Ginny, he'll be okay. We just need to find him, alright? Okay, Professor Lupin, can you talk to Hestia? Ron and I will look around camp. Ginny, get back to practice—"

"Nope," Ginny said, popping the p, "But I'll go find Angie— maybe she can get in touch with everyone from last night, see if anyone knows anything."

"Fine," Hermione said tightly. "C'mon, Ron, you can tell me about your second crisis—"

* * *

 **AN: Sorry for the wait! I finished finals and then kind of just fell into hibernation. As usual, I would love to hear from you, so drop me a line, my loves.**

 **XOXO OS**


	10. And Then aka Wazlib Revealed

"Ange—" Ginny rounded the wall, popping her head through the locker room doorway just in time to see a thoroughly pissed-off-looking Angelina rather aggressively tear a piece of paper out of a notebook.

"Red," she said, her head snapping up when she spotted Ginny. "Good, you're here. A friggin' spectral bear just waltzed into the weight room—"

Ginny blinked, nonplussed. "What?"

"Diggory," Angelina said, waving the now slightly-strangled paper dismissively. "Friggin' showoff, sending a goddamn patronus when he could've just sent an owl like a regular person!"

"Ah," Ginny said. "When's the match?"

"Tonight," Angelina replied. "Seven-thirty work for you?"

"Uh, yeah, that's fine," Ginny said. "Do you know where Harry—"

"Yes, great, tell him too," Angelina said distractedly, not looking up from where she was scrawling a response on the paper.

"Yes, but Harry—" Ginny tried again.

"I'm gonna send this reply right now. Via _bird_ like a normal human—" And then Angelina was striding purposefully away.

"Wow, thanks so much," Ginny said faux-brightly, grinding her teeth as she faked a smile at her captain's retreating back. She pivoted to go, and then— _Wait._

She paused. Maybe Harry had gone to the pitch downtown… It made sense; nighttime flies had probably become a habit for him when he felt restless (although after she'd taken the fall for him yesterday he probably didn't feel safe doing it anymore). But last night, on the pitch— she could see it in his face, even though she'd hardly known him for a full three days— he'd been so free. If he had felt trapped, that's probably where he would've gone. She'd likely have done the same.

She ducked fully into the locker room to get her broom, then broke into a sprint down the hall, shouldering it as she ran and feeling very much like a knight in shining armor.

…

It turned out, she was right.

Harry and Wood were tossing a quaffle back and forth mid-air, easy to spot because of Wood's old scarlet Gryffindor robes and Harry's bright green uniform polo.

Wood was laughing at something Harry was saying, and Harry looked so adorably pleased that Ginny wanted to chuck something at him.

So she did. As she flew closer, she wrangled the rubber band out of her braid— yanking out several strands of hair in the process— and then, scowling, sling-shotted it at an unsuspecting Harry.

"Ow! What the— _Ginny?"_ Harry said as he turned and saw her, rubbing his no doubt stinging ear and looking thoroughly confused. He was holding onto the quaffle, still, which annoyed her. And now she was fifty feet off the ground and out a rubber band and so her hair had already slipped out of the admittedly messy braid and was whipping everywhere like she was freaking Medusa.

"There's a match at seven-thirty," She snapped at him, voice shrill, because suddenly she couldn't think of anything else to say. She'd half-expected to find him lying broken on the ground from one of his stupid stunts, or at the very least flying out some vigorous angst, but instead he was _playing catch._

"…Ginny?" Harry asked more hesitantly.

She glared at him.

"Oh, your hair— did you—?" He eyed her crazy, whipping hair— which was probably _so attractive_ , if one were into _banshees,_ maybe, and Ginny had always _liked_ how she looked well enough, but now she thought she could maybe die of self-consciousness, and she'd just left practice and flown here without a thought _like an insane person—_ she hadn't even brought her _wand—_ and he was _fine!_

And then, "Don't worry, I'll get it for you." And before she had fully processed what _that_ meant, Harry had tossed the quaffle to her and _was diving in search of her rubber band_ , which even Ginny knew was well and truly lost by now, and Ginny realized that _oh,_ maybe she wasn't the only person acting crazy, and— maybe that was okay.

Wood flew up next to her, grinning almost maniacally at the disappearing tail of Harry's broom. "He's mad, isn't he?" He asked, his tone admiring. And then, "I think he likes you."

"I—I think I like him too," Ginny said quietly, also following the broom tail with her eyes.

* * *

Harry arrived at the coffee shop a few minutes early and slightly nervous about the coming meeting.

He hadn't been able to find Ginny's rubber band, which he'd felt bad about, especially since he'd probably scared her when he'd jumped out the window like that— he really hoped she hadn't seen— and she'd flown all that way after him, but she'd seemed better when he'd finally surfaced and admitted defeat. She'd been tossing the quaffle with Oliver, her hair sort of twisted and tucked into the neck of her shirt, and she'd smiled at him, so fondly and almost shyly that he wanted to go and find her a thousand rubber bands.

Oliver had begged off the match tonight, but he and Ginny were still out there with the quaffle when Harry left, which was good, Harry thought, because she was actually a skilled chaser and could help him practice keeping. After that first scare, Oliver's wrist hadn't done anything weird in the few hours he and Harry, and then Ginny, had tossed around the quaffle, so when Harry got a second owl back again from Roonil, saying that he was available to meet today (he was in London, apparently), Oliver had shooed him off.

Harry ordered a cappuccino, feeling rather exhilarated when he took some bills out of his pocket and he remembered that the money was his own, that he had earned it, and the Dursleys couldn't take it away from him.

He chose a small booth by a window and was just settling in with the paper when he heard a familiar, slightly-bossy voice. Harry looked up from the muggle paper— just a few weeks ago he would've just called it a regular paper!— to see a familiar bushy head of hair. His face seemed to automatically split into a grin. He folded the paper.

"Hermione!" He called, waving. "Hermione, over here!"

She turned, breaking off from whatever she was saying to the person next to her, and Harry got a good eyeful of her companion, who turned beet-red upon spotting him.

"Er, Ron?" Harry asked, perplexed. "…What are you wearing?"

Ron was wearing what appeared to be a loose, white kaftan, with a checkered red headcloth sitting lopsidedly on his head, bound by a coil of black cord. His face was almost as red as the headcloth, which he kept patting self-consciously.

"Harry!" he shouted, his voice about two octaves higher than normal.

"It's a _thawb_ ," Hermione informed him proudly, steering Ron towards Harry's table, "And the headdress is called a _keffiyeh._ "

"Um, that's neat," Harry said awkwardly, shooting a look at Ron, who grimaced. Hermione beamed at him and then went back up to the counter to order.

"I'm meeting someone," Ron explained to Harry, tugging irritably at the checkered cloth. "A muggle. He was my pen-pal in first year for a Muggle Studies assignment. My brother Bill lives in Egypt, so I just told him that I was from Egypt to explain away anything I said that seemed strange to him, and I sort of went with it." Ron shrugged. "It's funny, actually, his name is also—"

"Harry P.," Harry said quietly. He sat back in his seat, feeling oddly winded. "Harry P. That's— that's me. So I guess that means you're 'Roonil Wazlib?'"

"Wait what— _You're_ Harry P?!" Ron asked, his eyes going comically round. "What—how?!"

"I got my Hogwarts letter but couldn't go," Harry told him. "Lived with muggles until about three weeks ago. I guess our primary school class partnered with your Muggle Studies class? And what's with the name?"

"One of Fred and George's joke quills messed up my actual name, and I thought it sounded Arab," Ron said, making a self-deprecating face at Harry.

Hermione reappeared and slid a foamy drink towards Ron before turning to Harry. "Harry, it's so good to see you. Everyone's been quite worried!" She gave him a worried look as if to prove it to him, and Harry couldn't help but be amused at her fussiness.

"Sorry," he said, mimicking Ron's self-deprecating smile. "No need to worry, I just went for a bit of a fly. Needed to clear my head a bit."

Ron smiled at him, and it was just so both unassuming and affirming that it made Harry grin back at him, for real this time. His relationship with Roonil had been easier than most relationships Harry had had in his life; the same went for his relationship with Ron— maybe it would be easier than he thought to just combine the two and pick up where he left off with Roonil.

"Hermione, you won't believe who Harry is!" Ron said excitedly.

Hermione dropped into the seat next to Ron, looking relieved. "Oh, thank God. I was worried about having to keep that secret from you. You know how you get with celebrities, and you've got that Harry Potter poster up in your room—"

"You _know_ that was a gift from Ginny— wait, hang on, what secret?!"

Hermione relaxed into her chair and took a sip of her coffee. "I just meant about Harry Dursley actually being Harry Potter—"

"WHAT?" Ron bellowed, spitting out an ill-timed gulp of latte and causing most of the coffeeshop's patrons to look their way. Hermione gave them all an embarrassed-looking smile before turning back to the table.

"Er, actually, we hadn't quite gotten to that portion yet," Harry said awkwardly, removing his glasses to wipe them on his shirt. "We actually just found out we were pen-pals."

"Are you really?" Hermione asked, and then, "Oh, I'm so sorry, Harry, I just outed your secret, and it wasn't my place to tell—"

"It's fine," Harry said hastily, jamming his glasses back on and trying to fight his instinct to flee. "Really, it's not a big deal. I probably would have told you guys anyway."

"Are you sure?" Hermione asked, looking distressed.

"Positive, Hermione," He gave her his best reassuring smile.

Ron was staring at him, mouth agape. "You're all of the Harrys I know," he informed him.

"Well, as long as we all know, then," Hermione said hesitantly. She reached in her robe pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, which she placed in front of Harry.

Harry shot her a curious look and then opened it up. It was some sort of legal form. _Custody Agreement,_ he read. He saw his own name, and his parents' names, and also "Sirius Black?" He asked aloud, "I don't understand. What is this?"

"He was your godfather," Hermione said quietly, "Sirius Black."

Harry thought about the stern, cold man he'd met. He couldn't even imagine living with him— well, at least he'd've grown up with a pretty great dog and, honestly, the man might've been an improvement on the Dursleys… _Wait._ "He…he gave me up?"

His voice sounded small even to his own ears, but he must've sounded truly pathetic because Ron made a strange sound in the back of his throat and Hermione reached forward to clasp his hand in both of hers.

"Harry, I don't think it's quite that simple," she said, squeezing his hand. "Um, an old professor of ours was good friends with Black, back in the day— and your parents, too!— and he believes that the man who calls himself Sirius Black is actually an imposter. We don't know how long the imposter has been around."

"Wouldn't- wouldn't someone have noticed?" Harry asked, trying to wrap his head around what she was saying. "You can't just pretend to be someone that well-known for—for years—"

"Actually, it's possible that they didn't notice. There are ways—"

"Lupin thinks someone's been _impersonating_ Sirius Black?" Ron finally spluttered, looking like he was one more surprise revelation away from bursting an aneurysm. "Wait, Lupin was _friends_ with Sirius Black?"

Hermione gave him a stern look, before turning back to Harry. "The Ministry recorded a foreign magical signature near the Dursley residence earlier this week. We think he might be looking for you, which means you could be in danger."

Harry blinked. "Wait, you said your professor was friends with my parents?"

"Harry, are you listening to me? You could be in serious danger—"

"Look, Hermione, I don't live at the Dursleys anymore, and I ran into Sirius Black last night and I told him I was a Weasley, so—"

"Of course you can be a Weasley!" Ron said excitedly, "That's brilliant! You can come live with us. Mum'll love you, and Ginny'd be over the moon; we can just color your hair and introduce you everywhere as Cousin Barny—"

Harry took a drink of his coffee and ducked his head, his eyes suddenly prickling. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear them, and beamed at Ron, deciding, in that moment, that Sirius Black or his impersonator or _who-the-hell-ever_ could go and screw himself because Harry was fine. He was just fine.

"Hey, Ron," he said, after downing his drink. "Wood's busy tonight, so we're down one man and there's going to be a QuidSwitch match at seven-thirty. You in?"

Ron jolted forward as if he was going to spit out his drink again, and Harry was already wincing in preparation, but the ginger made a concerted effort to swallow, his adam's apple bobbing, before he opened his mouth. "Am I in—? Merlin, yes! I'm in! Blimey!"

* * *

Lupin thanked Hestia and exited the office feeling rather terrible. It was a cool day, beautiful, and far enough away from the full moon that he might've felt good, otherwise. He tucked his hands in his worn pockets and strolled towards the barracks. He should've checked in on Harry in person, and sooner—

Two bright, identical ginger heads materialized in front of him.

"—Polyjuice potion, I'm telling you—"

"But why—?"

There was a muffled bark.

"Oi, pipe down, you hairy beast," one of the twins said cheerily, "We're getting to you."

The space around the two heads warped, and then a plain black cloak dropped to the ground, revealing the rest of their bodies, as well as a very familiar, shaggy, black dog.

Lupin froze, mid-stroll. _"Padfoot?"_

* * *

 **AN: ooooooh. Also! I started doing chapter titles, but I had some really funny ones that were unfortunately too long for the max character limit which was unfortunate so I made do. Anyway, what are your thoughts?**

 **Hope everyone's summer is going lovely! :) I have personally been watching a ton of Great British Bake off and also just sleeping a lot and it's quite a nice change! I do have summer classes in a couple of weeks though so boooo.**

 **XOXOXO**

 **OS**


	11. Doggone it! aka Ginny makes a move

Hermione left the boys at the door to Hestia's office— giving a rueful Harry a thumbs-up, Ron a quick peck, and both of them a promise to attend the match later— before backtracking to where she'd last seen Lupin.

She found him several minutes later as she turned the corner around the small cabin the boys shared. He was crouched down on the grass with two identical ginger heads bent towards him.

"Professor!" She called, waving at him.

He turned. "Hermione," he greeted, his expression one of relief.

And then— "I found him!" They exclaimed in unison.

The twins looked up, smirking, and Hermione saw a shaggy black dog wagging its tail excitedly from where it lay between the three men.

Then she frowned, "Harry? No, you couldn't've, I've just left him."

"Oh good, thank Merlin for that," Lupin said, his face clearing, "I've found Sirius." He playfully wrestled the dog over. It nipped at his fingers before rolling over, exposing its hairy belly. "Greedy mutt," Lupin muttered accusingly, but rubbed it anyway.

Hermione looked at the dog and then back up at her old professor again, thoroughly confused. "Sirius Black?" She asked. "You've found Sirius Black? The real one?"

It was one of the twins who answered— Hermione had only met them a few times and could never quite tell them apart, probably because they kept giving her the wrong names— "We've just come from the Wasps HQ," the unidentified twin informed her, "We met with the manager. He was _barking_ mad."

"Quite mad," the other twin agreed, grinning from ear to ear, "I'd say quidditch management has really _gone to the dogs_."

Hermione stared at them, absolutely thrown by the seeming non-sequitur. _"What?"_ She demanded, and looked at Lupin, was biting back a smile as he scratched the dog's belly attentively.

He gave her an apologetic look when she caught his eye, but the smile unraveled across his face. "The dog, Hermione," he said, "Padfoot— _Sirius_ is an Animagus."

The twins looked at each other, faking looks of exaggerated shock.

 _"Sirius-ly?"_ The first twin asked, his mouth a perfect O of comic surprise.

"Doggone it!" The other twin exclaimed with feeling.

The dog in question rolled to its feet and barked, wagging its tail excitedly, almost as if in confirmation.

Hermione felt like her eyebrows had probably melted into her hairline by this point.

* * *

Harry pulled his polo hurriedly over his head. They'd said good-bye to Hermione after a late lunch and an awkward apology to Hestia who'd simply sighed exasperatedly and told him to take the next few days off. He and Ron had run some Quidditch drills for a couple hours and then grabbed a quick dinner with Neville, and now they had to hurry or they'd be late to lineup—

The polo came off and something small fell to the floor. Harry glanced down and saw a skinny black circle: _Ginny's rubber band_ — it must've gotten caught in his collar or one of the buttons. He'd been out flying all day, though— it was truly a wonder it hadn't gotten lost.

He picked it up and put it on his wrist. He could give it to Ginny later.

He exchanged his undershirt in favor of a jersey, grabbed his gloves, and called to Ron.

...

They were right on time to lineup— or late, by Angelina's standards. He disembarked quickly, Ron in tow, and hurried towards the assembled player groups.

Angelina was pacing furiously, twisting her fingers into each other. She caught Harry's eye when he entered and all but glared at him. Harry gave her an apologetic grimace and then waved at Diggory who was leaning against the wall up front and eating an apple, looking rather effortlessly like a male model.

They passed the keeper's group, and Miles Bletchley bared a set of truly frightening teeth at them, so Harry put a hand on Ron's shoulder and herded him over towards the more friendly-looking seekers, catching Ginny's eye as they passed. He looked around, but he couldn't see either of the twins, yet, so at least they weren't the last ones.

Chang smiled at them as they sat down and Ron looked like he might be sick.

"How're you feeling, mate?" Harry asked him lowly, squeezing his shoulder and nodding at Chang in greeting.

Ron grunted in answer. His face looked almost green, and Harry realized that there may have been some truth to the Twins' characterization of Ron's nerves.

...

"ROLL, RON, ROLL!" Harry screamed from the hoops where he'd been reluctantly stationed, once again, as keeper.

"Huh?" Ron turned confusedly, just in time for a bludger to collide with his chest, causing him to drop the quaffle— "Oof!"

"Youch!" Lee Jordan exclaimed into the microphone, "Looks like Back-pocket Weasley's off to a rough start— bludgered by his own brother, _the_ _betrayal!_ Diggory in possession!"

Fred, the offending brother, grinned at Ron and then shrugged awkwardly at a pissed-looking Angelina, before tucking off in search of another bludger. Fred was playing on the opposing team, _"Because,"_ as Angelina had explained through gritted teeth when Diggory had called Fred up and Harry'd given her a confused look, _"We're on **'friendly'** terms with the friggin' Puffs. I swear to God, next time we're stealing Chang." _Diggory had also poached an apologetic Katie Bell, leaving them with Alicia Spinnet, the chaser who'd been absent yesterday, and Demelza Robbins, the small, double-plaited girl who'd been on Flint's team.

Harry locked eyes with the approaching Diggory, adjusting himself on his broom in preparation of a potential shot. Diggory passed, and Harry followed the quaffle with his eyes.

"Get your head in the game, Back-pocket!" Harry heard Angelina growl.

'Back-pocket Weasley,' he'd learned from Ginny, was a nickname Ron had from school. There were so many Weasleys, and all but one of them were avid quidditch players, so there was likely several on the field at any given time. Apparently, Ron had tried out for keeper after Oliver had graduated— Ginny was already on the team— and a teacher had wryly remarked that it was "always handy in a pinch to have a Weasley in your back pocket," and the name had stuck. Apparently.

Unfortunately, in this particular pinch, the erstwhile Back-pocket aka Roonil Wazlib aka Ron Weasley wasn't exactly playing as well as Harry had hoped he would— as well as Harry _knew_ he could. It was barely a minute in and Ron had already lost possession of the quaffle twice and was fielding furious glares from Angelina.

"Brilliant steal by Arms Johnson!" Lee Jordan proclaimed.

Sure enough, Angelina was looping away from a put-out-looking Zacharias Smith with the quaffle tucked securely under her arm. Harry grimaced: Ron was flying far too close to her, all but hanging on her arm. As Harry watched, she smoothly transferred the quaffle to her left hand and shoved Ron away, none-too-gently, with her right. Harry winced.

"FRIEND-ZONED!" Lee Jordan hollered, snickering, into the microphone.

Harry's stint as keeper, comparatively, was going rather well. He'd only had to deal with one shot, courtesy of a reedy-looking kid called Ethan or Evan Humberstone, and he'd stopped it with relatively little difficulty.

"That's two minutes, folks, and still snake-eyes on the board! Let's get ready for some chaos!" Lee Jordan called.

Angelina passed to Ginny, who hurled the quaffle with ruthless efficiency through the right hoop, much to Lee's delight, "Excellent shot by Gee Dub, that's 10-love for Angie's Angels!"

"If you don't come up with a team name, Lee'll just make one for you," George explained to Harry, floating lazily at his right. He was ostensibly playing seeker.

"Ah," Harry said. Suddenly, 'the Flintstones' made a lot more sense. Angelina turned, looking murderous, and George ducked away immediately.

 _"Someone get him off!"_ Angelina barked, gesturing angrily at Ron. Harry swore he could see spittle flying.

"THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID!" Lee Jordan crowed.

Angelina flipped him the bird. A timid-looking Demelza hurriedly tapped Ron out, handing him a beater's bat.

"Chang passes to Diggory!" And just like that, Ginny, Demelza, and Angelina were off, weaving seamlessly through the air in pursuit, past a red-faced Ron.

Harry readied himself as Katie, Diggory, and Chang tag-teamed towards him, evading the defense.

"Gee Dub takes a hit! That's gotta hurt!"

Harry had been tracking the quaffle intently, but at the announcement his eyes flitted in search of Ginny— _there_. She was rubbing her knee irritatedly, but looked, otherwise, none the worse for wear. She met his eyes, and then opened her mouth in warning—

 _Shit_. He'd lost track of the quaffle. He found it just in time to see it soar through the left hoop.

"10-10!" Lee Jordan announced, "And what a complicated dynamic this match has! It's basically a civil war!"

"Sorry," Harry offered, as Ginny flew forward to switch with him.

"I _can_ look after myself, Dursley," She said, her tone just a touch annoyed. And then her eyes fastened to the rubber band around his wrist and her face softened. "Go get 'em," she said, tossing him the retrieved quaffle with a small smile.

Harry rolled out of the way of an incoming bludger immediately, and then ducked as it zoomed back at him again, passing hurriedly to Demelza.

"Traitor!" Harry yelled dramatically at Fred, (who stuck his tongue out at him), before flying to get into position, just in time for a newly-anointed Alicia Spinnet to drive him a hard right pass. He caught it, faked left on Humberstone, and then sunk it cleanly in the center hoop.

"20-10 Angels!"

Alicia nodded appreciatively at him.

"Humberspoon passes to Bell!"

"It's Humberstone!" The reedy kid yelled in complaint from the hoops.

Harry was dogging Katie. She rolled to lose him, but he rolled with her. She huffed, and then executed a quick under-broom pass.

"Bell passes to Abbott! Abbott shoots! That's Gee Dub with the save, good girl. Gee Dub passes to Spinnet, Spinnet passes to _…Bell!?_ Alicia, Katie's not on your—! _Ouch,_ Bell shoots and scores!"

"Sorry!" Alicia called, looking mortified. Harry tried to give her an encouraging smile. Ginny retrieved the quaffle.

Humberstone slunk out of the opposite hoops, reaching out to receive the beater's bat from Fred.

"20-20 is the score, folks! With a neat bit of emotional treachery, Diggory's Gold-diggers have tied it up. Today, it's friend against friend, _brother against brother,_ _lover against lover_ — Gee Dub passes to Dursley."

Harry caught the quaffle and tucked it under his arm. He was immediately accosted by Cho Chang, and he was sure Katie was waiting underneath to complete a Porskoff, but he managed to get off a slightly-sloppy pass to Demelza.

He yelped as a bludger skimmed right past his nose.

Ron flew up and dispatched it abruptly with a wide backhand swing. The bludger arced across the field and collided with Humberstone.

"Ooh, Back-pocket gets poor Humbertoes right in the gut! Hope he doesn't…Humber _spew_!"  
Humberstone groaned, either in pain or annoyance, Harry wasn't quite sure. Harry met Ron's eyes

and gave him a thumbs-up.

Ron grimaced at him in return. "Wanna be beater for a bit?" He asked quietly.

"Sure," Harry said. "Then you maybe switch with George? He's been seeking for a while."

They made the trade-off, and then Ron went and made George a chaser, before glumly going to join his sister at the hoops.

Angelina was manning the other bat, and Harry helpfully corralled the bludgers her way so she could send them at Fred, and occasionally Diggory.

The match was tight, and they were at 50-50 before Angelina went to relieve Ginny.

Playing beater was loads more fun with Ginny. Together they took down Zacharias Smith, who Ginny had pronounced "a righteous prick," which was honestly good enough for Harry, before Angelina signaled Harry to switch out with someone.

He picked Demelza, saluting Ginny with his beater's bat before he left. She rolled her eyes at him.

He handed off the bat and then he, Alicia, and George pushed past the defensive line consisting of Humberstone, a groaning Zacharias Smith, and a round-faced girl named Hannah Abbott. Harry passed, and Alicia made a clean shot through center hoop on Fred.

Alicia and George switched out for Ron and Angelina, respectively, and Diggory, subbing in for Abbott, made a breakaway, scoring cleanly on George before flying back across the pitch to play keeper, once again tying up the score.

Harry caught George's pass and was turning around to fly towards the hoop when a glint of gold caught his eye across the pitch.

Not heeding Angelina's low growl, he immediately passed to Ron, who fumbled with it but didn't drop it. Ron and Angelina made for the hoops. Harry trailed them, keeping the snitch in his eyeline.

 _Who was seeker?_

He turned slowly on his broom. Ginny was still holding a bat, and George was at the hoops, which meant…

His eyes fell on Alicia, who was surveying the field and picking at her nails several feet away, looking bored. She was near their hoops.

Ron and Angelina had made an attempt at the far hoops but had been thwarted by Fred, and the play was now coming back towards their side of the field.

But the snitch was now darting further away, towards the other side of the field. And worse, Chang, an actual seeker, was currently playing the position for the other team, and she was currently conducting a diligent search pattern.

Angelina made a steal off of Humberstone and passed to Harry. He rolled out of the way of a bludger from Katie and sent the quaffle back to Angelina, but Diggory intercepted.

Harry fell back only slightly to guard him, and let Diggory fly straight into his block. He crowded him, trying to herd him towards Alicia.

He felt Alicia behind him move to help him box Diggory in, and then Harry dropped, executing a perfect sloth-grip roll on his broom and tapping Alicia's ankle as he rolled underneath both of them.

Alicia immediately stiffened, locking Diggory's broomstick handle in with hers and casting blindly underneath her for Harry. She caught the side of his head, just barely, but that was enough for him and then he was hurtling across the pitch to where he'd seen the snitch, scattering a startled Humberstone and Zacharias.

"Ooh, points for coolest switch!" Lee Jordan yelled enthusiastically.

With his eyes scanning greedily, it didn't take Harry long to find the snitch again, dancing teasingly across from him, just feet behind Chang's ear. _She hadn't seen it yet._

Without thinking twice, he dove, steeply, where he was, and then surfaced slightly, eyes tracing the empty air in front of him as if he'd seen the snitch, before tearing jaggedly towards the hoops. Chang was on his tail instantly, and Harry let her follow, pressing himself to his broomstick for speed. She did the same. Distantly, he heard Lee Jordan hollering into the microphone, but for the moment it was just him and Chang, racing for the hoops, her hair whipping at his ankles.

They hit the hoop-line, and Harry tucked into his flip, snapping the broom backwards as he'd done with Oliver. This was no keeper's broom, though, and there was no sturdiness to leverage. He changed direction so quickly he gave himself whiplash, but he drove on— he'd lost Chang, she'd clearly been disoriented by the sharp turn. His eyes roved the sky where he'd last seen the snitch— _there._ He saw it, buzzing happily, now nearly halfway back across the pitch.

It zipped away almost as soon as he'd spotted it, as if sensing his eyes. He gave chase, pouring himself into the air after it.

It was an erratic little snitch, with a very jerky, unpredictable flight pattern. He would be centimeters away, so close he could taste the little gold ball, and then it would tumble or turn or drop or change directions so abruptly he was left absolutely disoriented, but he kept on its little gold tail determinedly. His neck was already aching from his earlier flip-snap-mishap, and the sharp changes in direction of the snitch were certainly not helpful.

Chang had obviously recovered from his little trick and she was gaining on him, flying up on him from below.

And that was the inopportune moment the snitch, which had been zipping forward, away from him, and trailing ever so slightly upwards, suddenly dropped. He should've known.

Chang flew up to meet it, and Harry slung himself after it without a thought, locking his ankles around the handle as he swung upside down on the broom, reaching—

And he closed his fist around the snitch scant inches from Chang's outstretched fingers.

Lee went ballistic in the microphone.

Harry, still hanging upside-down from his ankles was face to face with an incredibly-shocked Cho Chang, her gloved hand still grasping at the air.

Harry gave her an awkward smile, and then hoisted himself back onto his broom, groaning— it took a lot more upper body strength than he had realized— only to come face to face with Ginny, who was holding his broom steady as he re-adjusted himself on it and smiling broadly at him.

He found his seating and nodded at her, grinning stupidly, the adrenaline coursing through his veins. She released her grip on the handle, raising an amused eyebrow.

He gave her a thumbs-up, showing her the snitch, and she rolled her eyes at him. And then she hooked her ankle around his broomstick handle and yanked him towards her.

They collided, and she shifted so she was sitting sideways on her broomstick, facing him, and grabbed a fistful of his jersey, dragging him even closer.

She looked at him. Her eyes were blazing.

Harry's mouth suddenly felt dry. He licked his lips, transfixed by that fiery light in her eyes.

And then she was kissing him. _Really_ kissing him— nothing like that friendly peck from yesterday.

He vaguely thought he heard Lee Jordan wolf-whistling raucously into the microphone, but he couldn't care less. His heart was thundering in his ears, and all he could possibly comprehend in that moment was _Ginny_ — the feel of her lips, so soft and wild and hungry against his, the gentle puff of her breath against his mouth— hot, wet, and salty— before she dove in for more, the taste of her— tangy and spicy and _absolutely intoxicating—_

She broke away from him, panting, and pressed her forehead to his, hand flat against his chest. She was grinning widely.

"Beater," she whispered, then, and unhooked her ankle from his broom handle and gently pushed his broomstick away with her foot, shoving his chest away with her hand a little more roughly.

All Harry could think was that he was pretty sure he'd just been on the receiving end of some serious hanky panky.

He let the broom skid back, ignoring Lee Jordan's chuckled remark of "Well, I'm not sure that was a regulation tap…" He stared at Ginny dazedly, then clumsily caught the beater's bat she threw at him. She winked saucily at him and then tucked and rolled away.

"Oi, we've got a match going on here!" George chided, flying past Harry in pursuit of the quaffle, but he turned his head ever so slightly as he zoomed by and tossed Harry a wink of his own.

Ron, on the other hand, was stationed at the hoops, not so much winking as twitching, looking like he was having some sort of fit. Harry cringed. But then the quaffle hurtled toward their hoops and Ron didn't so much as blink, trapping it expertly with both hands before it could enter the right hoop, and then punting it back into play.

Huh.

* * *

 **AN: A KISS! :O**

 **Hope you liked, my luvs. Just a few things:**

 **1\. You guys, it is literally so hard to write scenes with broomsticks in them and avoid unintentional innuendos. LOL it is quite ridiculous.**

 **2\. Thank you so much to those of you who take the time to review. It really means so much. I especially want to thank my absolutely amazing guest reviewers: Hinny FTW, lilemly, lwik, and Chris (among other unnamed heroes). You guys have let me long, thoughtful, and extremely kind reviews and I am always so grateful to hear from you. I want to respond at length to each and every one of you, but I can't since you're all on Guest accounts :( That's okay, though. Just know that you are all loved and appreciated!**

 **Muah, love you all!**

 **XOXO OS**


	12. Laps aka The Dogfather

"What's he doing?" George asked, dismounting by the stands.

"Laps, he said," Alicia answered, shrugging, as she shouldered her broomstick. "Katie and I are going to the pub, tell him good game for me."

Ginny waved good-bye to the two girls as they left, then fanned herself with that hand. Her hair was hot and scratchy on her neck. Diggory, Chang, and company had cleared out, and it was now just the Weasleys on the bleachers with Angelina, Hermione, a newly-arrived Oliver Wood, and, for some reason, Professor Lupin and his dog.

 _"Laps?"_ Fred repeated, looking scandalized. _"Why?"_

They all turned to look at where Harry was jogging along the perimeter of the asphalt pitch, head down.

Ginny unscrewed her water bottle and took a sip.

"How many?" Oliver demanded impatiently, which made everyone turn and stare at him. Oliver Wood was a _huge_ proponent of laps, as they all knew from being on various teams under him.

"What?" Oliver asked bewilderedly, "I need to talk to him."

"Get in line," Ron told him, uncharacteristically aggressively.

" _You_ get in line," Fred said to Ron. " _We_ need to talk to him first."

"This had better not be about the kiss," Ginny warned, glaring up at them from her seat on the bleachers.

"Oh, is that what you call it?" Ron demanded. "My mistake. See, it looked more like you were _eating each other's faces."_

"Ron," Hermione said, her voice tinged with warning.

Ginny carefully screwed the cap back on her water bottle and set it aside, hands curled into fists, ready for a fight.

"It's not about the kiss," George said tightly, his face surprisingly serious. He and Hermione shared a look that confused Ginny.

"I'd like to talk to him as well, if that's okay," Lupin butt in mildly. "Happy to get in line, though, don't want to step on any toes." The dog next to him barked happily, wagging its tail, and Lupin gave it a scratch behind the ears.

Everyone glanced at him.

"Professor," Oliver said blankly, "Hello."

"Wood, I thought you were busy today," Angelina accused, rounding on him.

"I was," Oliver said hurriedly, glancing at Ginny quickly and then glancing away. "I only just caught the end of the game. But—I have news. Let Harry know, will you? And Diggory and Chang, I suppose. I just ran into McGonagall—"

Instantly everyone's attention was on Oliver.

Surprisingly— in Ginny's opinion, anyway— it was Hermione who spoke up, apparently momentarily distracted from the mobile library she'd brought to the match: " _Minerva McGonagall?_ She's the one who wrote that brilliant paper on statistical modeling of snitch flight patterns!"

There was a beat, as everyone regarded her vacantly, and then—

"McGonagall's in town?" Angelina demanded.

"Yes," Oliver said, "Just for the weekend."

"But it's not even exhibition week!" Exhibition week was the final week of the QuidSwitch season, when the teams were all well-oiled machines, and there were often official and unofficial team scouts in attendance. Angelina herself had been signed to the Harpies reserve team during Exhibition week last year, which had been Ginny's first year playing, and Oliver's last year captaining.

"McGonagall's an assistant coach and a scout for Puddlemere," Ginny explained to Hermione, who was looking suddenly lost again. "She played seeker on Puddlemere for fifteen years, way back in the day."

"Not _way_ back in the day," Lupin put in, chuckling. "I was in school when she played."

"Of course, forgive her," George said cheekily, "I think what Ginny _meant_ was _way_ back in the wizarding Stone Age."

"Before wands were invented," Fred added helpfully. "People would just wave their hands and hope for something magical to happen."

Ginny rolled her eyes at them. "Sorry, Professor, ignore them."

"Hello, _crisis_!" Angelina barked in reminder, flapping her hand in front of Fred's face in a _Cease-And-Desist-At-Once_ manner. She turned back to Oliver, "Does she want to see a match? It's so early!"

"No," Wood said. "She _knows_ that. They'll still send someone for exhibition week. It's more of a personal thing, I think. There've been whispers about Choudry retiring in a few years. She asked me if I knew any good seekers. I think she's looking for someone to mentor."

Once again, everyone turned to look at the lone figure sprinting along the border of the pitch.

"Holy shit," Ron said, "this would be huge for him."

"He's good," Angelina admitted—almost reluctantly, it seemed to Ginny, but that was pretty on brand— "But is he good enough for _Minerva McGonagall?_ He's so new…"

"He's better than Cho or Cedric," Ginny declared confidently.

Angelina followed Harry's path with her eyes, gaze assessing, then nodded distractedly. "We don't usually play on Sundays, but I'll talk to Flint and Diggory, see if we can set up a Seater's or something." She looked at Fred and George. "Can you two beat tomorrow?"

Both Fred and George opened their mouths, probably to unleash some sort of chaos, but Angelina beat them to it, tapping her watch anxiously. "Shoot, I've got a strat meeting with Griffith in fifteen. Red, you coming back with me?"

"I'll stay," Ginny said, and then at the look she got in answer, "What? It's Saturday!"

"Fine," Angelina conceded. "I'll owl everyone. Good game." And then she was jogging off.

"I've got to head out, too," Wood said apologetically, reaching out to ruffle Ginny's hair, even though she groaned and made a face at him. "Nice job, kiddo. And you, Ron."

Ron blinked in surprise.

"Tell Harry I said good job, alright?" Oliver addressed Ginny again, and then he too was jogging off.

Ron was silent for a few more moments, mouth gaping. And then— "Oh, she'll do more than that," he hollered at Oliver's retreating back, having apparently found his voice.

 _"Ronald!"_ Hermione admonished.

 _"What is with you?"_ Ginny demanded, getting to her feet, her blood pumping hotly. "You really expect Harry to what— _ask your permission?_ What am I, a piece of _property_ he has to _ask you for_ before touching? _"_

"It's not that," Ron said defensively. "He's my friend—"

"Hermione's mine!" Ginny snapped. "And I certainly didn't see you asking _me_ for any permission before shoving your tongue down her throat yester—"

 _"Ginny!"_ Hermione gasped, looking scandalized.

The dog barked, loudly, startling everyone.

Across the field, Harry looked in their direction.

And then the dog was bounding off towards him, and Harry was throwing himself to the asphalt, arms wide open to receive it.

The dog crashed into him, knocking him onto his back, and Ginny started forward, but Harry just surfaced, waving his arms wildly in surrender as he laughed in unadulterated delight.

Ginny couldn't help but stare. He looked so… happy.

"He looks just like him," Lupin murmured behind her.

"Arabella Figg," Ron said suddenly. "Harry mentioned her yesterday, I don't know why I didn't connect— that was his neighbor's name. His coach. I used to send the letters to her address… She would make him run laps if he made a mistake."

Ginny looked at him, thrown by this apparent non-sequitur.

Ron paused. "I think her maiden name was Jones," he said finally, "Arabella Jones. Hestia's and Gwenog's sister. According to Seamus, she died last night."

 _What?!_

"Shit," George contributed.

 _No wonder Harry had jumped out of a window and flown away._ His _coach_ had just died. Ginny had a sudden recollection of sling-shotting him with her rubber band and screeching at him earlier that morning, and suddenly _she_ wanted to jump out of a window.

Hermione let out a noisy breath, dog-earing a page in her book. "Well, his day's only about to get worse," she said sadly.

The twins shared another look that Ginny couldn't quite interpret.

"What's going on?" She asked, looking at Fred, George, and then at Hermione. "What is it? This secret that you're all sharing?"

* * *

"Oh yes, you're my very good boy," Harry told Padfoot, burying his fingers in the fur of the dog's scruffy neck and carding through it.

Padfoot whined in appreciation and nuzzled into Harry's chest, wagging its tail vigorously.

"How can we get this collar off you, hmm?" Harry muttered, reaching around Padfoot's neck to feel for some sort of release mechanism along the smooth metal. His hands met at the back of the dog's neck; he hadn't been able to feel for any sort of catch. "Hmm, no don't worry," he reassured a panting Padfoot. "We'll get it off, alright?" He patted the dog's side, frowning as he felt the protruding ribs. "I've got a protein bar in my bag," he told Padfoot. "Does that sound good, or no?"

The dog licked his hand encouragingly, swishing its tail before it disentangled itself from Harry's arms and began trotting towards the bleachers.

"I've still got some laps left, Padfoot," Harry said with a sigh. He was panting about as much as the dog, he realized, and his face was slick with sweat. He lifted his shirt to mop at it, feeling exhausted.

"Harry!" It was Hermione, waving him over from the stands, her bushy hair pulled into a messy bun and lips drawn in a thin frown. Padfoot settled down lazily on his belly in front of the stands, eyes half-lidded, to be doted on by Ginny.

There was a whole group gathered there, Harry realized, feeling part-guilty and part-touched. They were waiting for him.

He let his shirt fall back into place and jogged over.

Ginny looked up, and their eyes met. Hers were soft, and she smiled gently at him. He felt himself go crimson, and he quickly looked away.

Then his eyes met Ron's. He cringed.

"Listen, Harry," Ron said, sighing. "About what happened—"

"I'm sorry," Harry said quickly. "I mean, not that I kissed her," he glanced up at Ginny, who cracked a small smile. "Um, I'm glad I did that, actually, but, I should've maybe talked to you first, so it wasn't such a shock, but it just sort of _happened_ —"

Ron sighed again, chewing on his lip. "It's okay," he said finally. Ginny glanced at him in apparent surprise, but he plowed on. "I guess if it has to be someone, I'd rather it be you." He met Harry's eyes again, and it was awkward, but it was also kind of nice, actually.

"So… we're good?" Harry asked uncertainly, running his hands through his hair. He didn't dare look at Ginny.

"We're good," Ron confirmed. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I was mad as hell at first—" He grinned reluctantly, "But, honestly, _I_ could've kissed you after that snitch catch."

 _"Ow ow ow!"_ George cat-called, as Fred wolf-whistled.

Ron rolled his eyes at them, but smiled.

Harry grinned, his eyes darting towards Ginny. She grinned back at him, still scratching Padfoot behind the ears.

"Oh!" Harry started, remembering his manners and turning towards the twins. "I can't believe you guys found him! Thank you so much, seriously. I owe you guys one."

"Right," Fred said, "You may want to hold off on thanking us for now—"

"Before we get into the serious business," a man that Harry hadn't noticed until now cut in mildly, "Maybe we could tell him the…better news?"

Harry looked up from Padfoot and into the scarred, prematurely-lined face of the speaker. Harry was pretty sure he'd never seen him before, but there was an aching sort of recognition in the man's weary brown eyes.

"Sorry," Harry said automatically, holding his hand out to shake. "I don't believe we've met? I'm—"

"I know who you are, Harry," the man interrupted quietly, staring at him intently. "Forgive me, you look so very like your father—"

Harry let the hand he'd extended to shake fall to his side in shock.

"But your eyes," The man continued, drinking in Harry's face hungrily. "They're your mother's. Lily's eyes, precisely."

Harry stared at him in astonishment, hardly daring to blink.

"Harry, this is the professor I was telling you about, Professor Lupin," Hermione introduced him.

"Please," Professor Lupin said, looking embarrassed. "Call me Remus." He gave Harry a tired smile. "I apologize if I came on too strongly—"

"No," Harry said immediately. "No, I— anything you can tell me about them, _anything_ at all, I'd love to hear."

"We'll get to that," Hermione said. "First, the good news: A Puddlemere Scout is coming to watch you tomorrow."

 _"What?"_

"Oliver came by to bring the news. _Minerva McGonagall_ ," Ginny said. "You've heard of her, right?"

"Of course," Harry said. "She caught the snitch in the 1974 World Cup. How's Oliver?" He addressed Ginny.

"He seemed fine," Ginny dismissed. "Anyway, word is McGonagall's looking for a player to mentor."

"What? Why me?" Harry asked, feeling absolutely disoriented. "You've all been playing here for much longer—"

"She'll want a seeker," Ron said, as if it were obvious.

"Diggory, then," Harry said. "He's good—"

"You're better," Ginny returned, in a tone that brooked no argument. "Besides, Diggory'll play tomorrow, too."

"Ange's trying to put together a Seater's match," Fred said.

"That means just beaters and seekers," George explained.

"But—"

"We'll practice," Ginny said confidently. She lifted her hand from Padfoot's head to squeeze Harry's. "As long as you want. Tomorrow morning, before the match. Harry, this could be it for you."

Harry looked around at all of them, feeling overwhelmed. "I- I don't know what to say—"

"Don't say anything yet," George said with a sigh.

"No," Fred said, grinning from ear to ear. "Not until you find out about the doggle-ganger."

"Fred!" Hermione scolded.

"Sorry, what's going on?" Harry asked, feeling bewildered.

"Before I go on, Harry," Hermione said, "Professor Lupin, Ron, and I all know your secret. Are you okay with everyone else here knowing it too?"

Harry hesitated, then looked at the twins, neither of whom was smiling anymore, and at Ginny, looking up at him in confusion.

He swallowed. "Er, yes," he said finally. "Yes, it's fine."

"Okay," Hermione began. "The man that we all know as Sirius Black is an imposter."

Harry nodded; this theory wasn't news to him. Ginny, however, looked shocked.

"He's been taking something called Polyjuice Potion in order to assume the appearance of Sirius Black," Hermione explained. "When the twins went to rescue Padfoot, they found several vials of Polyjuice Potion. Fred also swears he saw a vial labeled 'Unicorn Tears—'"

"I saw it," Fred affirmed immediately, "I should've grabbed it—"

"You were in a hurry," George defended immediately, "You heard someone coming, and you already had your hands full with the potion and the dog."

"What's so significant about unicorn tears?" Harry asked.

"They're very rare," Hermione answered. "There are only a handful of potions that use them, most of them highly illegal. That's what I was researching during the match." She picked up a book from the bench next to her and flipped to a dog-eared page. "I think this one's the most relevant," She showed him the page.

" _…'Polysupremum?'_ " Harry read off the yellowed page. "What's that?"

"It's really obscure," Hermione said, "Fred mentioned the tears, and the Polyjuice Potion, and I remembered having read something about it in a footnote in a textbook. Professor Lupin was able to help me track down more sources while you two were practicing." She gestured haphazardly to the pile of books around her. "Anyway, most of it was highly theoretical. I don't even know whether or not it's ever been successfully attempted. But this book," She waved the one she was holding, "is the closest we could find to actual instructions. Basically, it's supposed to make the effects of Polyjuice permanent."

Ginny's face was white. Even Fred and George looked absolutely shocked.

"You mean, if he makes this potion, or whatever," Ron said slowly, "He'll actually turn into Sirius Black? Forever?"

Hermione nodded.

"Hang on, sorry, how's that different from Polyjuice Potion?" Harry asked, feeling out of his depth. "You say he's potentially been impersonating Black for what, nearly fifteen years?"

"Polyjuice potion needs to be taken every few hours, Harry," Lupin answered. "And, it's not an easy potion to make. It takes at least a month to brew, and there are costs associated with stocking it up in great amounts. Not to mention, you need a constant supply of the DNA of the person you're impersonating."

"What?" Ron asked.

"Hair, or fingernail clippings, or something," Hermione clarified. "And to maintain such a solid charade for so long, the imposter would need access to a near unlimited supply of the real Sirius Black's DNA, meaning he was likely held hostage."

"What— for fifteen years?" Harry asked, aghast. "Not dead?"

Lupin looked physically ill, and he reached out blindly for Padfoot as if seeking support. The dog butted his hand with its face, whining softly.

"No, actually," Hermione said, brushing a strand of kinky dark hair out of her face, looking exhausted. "You can only Polyjuice into someone who's alive."

"So, then Sirius Black is out there?" Harry asked, barely daring to hope. "My- my godfather?"

"This is actually a bit of good news," Hermione said encouragingly. She motioned to Lupin. "Professor, do you want to—?"

"Yes," Lupin said, with his tired smile. "Your father, Harry," he addressed Harry, "And your godfather, they were very talented wizards. When we were in school— maybe just a bit younger than you are now, actually, they successfully became Animagi."

"Wicked," The Twins said simultaneously.

"Sorry," Harry repeated, feeling redundant and lost. "What's an Animagi?"

"'Animagus' is the singular term," Hermione corrected absently. Then she looked up. "Oh, sorry, go ahead Professor."

"That's quite alright, Hermione," Lupin said, his eyes crinkling, not looking at all bothered by her interruption. Harry was struck with a sudden thought that he must have been a wonderful teacher. "An Animagus is a wizard who can shape-shift, if you will, into an animal form. I was very good friends with your father, and with Sirius, and consequently I am very familiar with Sirius Black's Animagus form, so when Fred and George appeared with the dog—"

"I _cannot believe_ that you two actually _stole_ Sirius Black's _dog,"_ Ron interjected, staring at the twins incredulously.

"Aren't you listening, Ron?" Fred snapped. "We didn't steal Sirius Black's _dog_. _We stole_ _Sirius Black."_

Heart racing, Harry looked at Padfoot, who was sitting up now, head cocked, intelligent grey eyes fixed firmly on him. "So, then that's…?"

"Yes," George said seriously, "It's your dogfather."

 _"George!"_ Hermione's voice was shrill.

"Sorry," George apologized, attempting to keep a straight face. "I had to. Fred did one."

"Don't apologize for brilliance, brother mine," Fred said, lifting a hand which George not-quite-reluctantly high-fived.

Harry wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry.

* * *

 **A/N: Whoaaaaaa MIND BLOWN PSFHHHH**

 **Yes, I know many of you saw that coming. Anyway, Gimme some love, y'all, I've had a tough week :(**

 **And I start school on Monday so that's happening.**

 **Hope you guys are having a lovely summer!**

 **XOXOXO OS**


	13. Low-key Filler aka Kinky Snitch-Catching

**A/N: Okay I'll be honest, not a lot happens in this chapter and it's also not an amazing chapter (sorry) but it's been sitting on my laptop since the summer and at least it's something. I'll hopefully be able to finish this story over winter break! Wish me luck on my finals which are in a couple weeks and review pls because it'll almost be like i have friends (haha jk ... i mean kinda LOL)**

 **Happy Thanksgiving!**

* * *

"Mister Black!"

The tall, grey-eyed man paused, then forced a pleasant smile as he turned on his heel to regard his addressee.

The witch at the front desk gave him an embarrassed smile. "Terribly sorry, Mister Black, but you do have to check in—"

"Of course," He said, trying to quell his irritation as he re-traced his steps, "Forgive me." How long had it been since these halls were his place of work? Since he had strolled in every day without needing to "check in?"

He handed the witch his wand, smiling politely at her as he tapped his foot impatiently.

 _James._

He'd been so _sure_ he'd seen _James,_ that night at Hestia's.

James was dead, of course, so it couldn't have been him. He'd figured it was probably just some bloke with dark hair or glasses plus his overactive, paranoid imagination. But…whomever he'd been expecting to come forward, it certainly wasn't that Weasley girl.

It had been dark, of course, and he'd only gotten a quick glimpse, but…

 _Why James?_

Why hadn't he mistaken her for Lily? Up close, of course, they looked nothing alike. Ginny's hair was almost orange, while Lily's had been dark red. And Ginny was shorter, muddy-eyed, and vastly freckled, whereas Lily had been pale, lean, and slender, with those vivid green eyes.

But the long red hair, and of course, the _femaleness_ , together were enough superficial similarities that, had he thought he'd seen Lily, he would've dismissed it immediately. His guilty conscience— if that's what this was— surely had as much reason to conjure up Lily as it did James.

But it hadn't conjured up Lily. He'd seen James. _Why James?_

…And that dive. That crazy, death-defying dive. He'd surely seen James do that a million times.

He'd been _so sure_.

And then Remus had mentioned Harry and he'd been filled with the absolute certainty that it had been _Harry_ he'd seen.

A quick trip to Surrey had yielded very little. He'd seen a very fat boy, presumably Harry, but he'd looked nothing like James, or Lily.

But that insolent Weasley boy, last night, on the other hand… Maybe it was just the striking combination of red hair and green eyes, but something about him, about that stubborn, defensive look, had absolutely screamed _Lily_.

…And then Padfoot had escaped while George Weasley was in the building.

Coincidence?

Likely not.

Something— though he wasn't quite sure what, just yet— was afoot, and the Weasleys were at the center of it.

The witch handed him back his wand and a newly-printed badge. He thanked her and was heading to the lifts when a flash of red hair caught his eye.

"Hello Martha," A shabbily-dressed man said warmly, rummaging in his pockets.

"Good morning, Mister Weasley," the witch said.

Again, Weasley! _What was it with this family?_

"Please, Martha," The Weasley man said, re-pocketing his badge with a sunny smile. "I've told you, call me Arthur."

Arthur Weasley cleared the entrance, also starting towards the lifts, but the tall, grey-eyed man moved to intercept him.

"Arthur Weasley," he greeted.

Arthur glanced around for the source of his name, saw him, and gaped. "Sirius Black!?" He moved to meet him quickly, reaching out to shake his hand with both of his own. "Merlin! My sons are the biggest fans of you!"

"Are they?" He asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes," Arthur said effusively, "Oh, could I trouble you to sign something-?" He began rummaging around in his pockets again, presumably for a quill or a spare bit of parchment.

"Actually, I'm waiting on a signature from one of your sons," he told Arthur.

"What?" Arthur asked, his hands stilling. "What do you mean?"

"Well, for such a big fan, your son is certainly taking his sweet time with the reserve contract. Playing hard to get?"

"What?" Arthur repeated, looking honestly surprised. "What reserve contract?"

He frowned. "I tried to sign one of your sons yesterday, but he made a big fuss about talking to his family first."

Arthur Weasley's eyebrows had shot into his hairline. "Sign— you mean, to the Wasps!?"

"That is my team, yes," He said, smiling fixedly.

"I'm sorry," Arthur said, looking absolutely gobsmacked. "This is the first I've heard of any contract. The Twins— you are talking about the Twins, aren't you? Well they are huge fans, I can't imagine either of them turning it down—"

"Hmm," He said. "Well, tell your son to step on it. I'm not a patient man."

"O-of course, I'll tell them right away," Arthur assured him, stumbling over his words.

The man paused, savoring the sensation of absolute power he had, in this moment, over this man. No one had ever respected him like this, before, but there was something about Sirius's towering form that demanded respect.

How strange it felt, even after all these years, to be the one in charge, the one in power, the one that stood tall, commanding respect, rather than cowering and giving it.

"See that you do," He told Arthur, condescendingly.

Arthur nodded hastily and turned to go.

"Oh, and Arthur," He called after him, remembering that boy. The one that had looked so like Lily.

Arthur turned.

"What is the deal with your nephew? Was he dropped on his head or something?"

"Nephew?"

"Henry. Scrawny thing, green eyes, bit of an attitude?"

"I— I don't have a nephew named Henry," Arthur said, looking bewildered. "My older brother has a boy named Hayward, but he's still in diapers—"

His frown deepened. "Harry, maybe?"

Arthur shook his head.

"Never mind," he said pleasantly. "I must have been mistaken."

Arthur nodded, looking dazed, and turned to go.

 _Harry._ Somehow, _that_ boy must have been Harry damn Potter. There was no other way.

To tell the truth, after he'd signed off custody on the boy, all those years ago, he'd honestly all but forgotten about him.

He pocketed his badge, re-tracing his steps through the entrance, ignoring the front desk witch's confused look.

Padfoot, the cracked locks, Harry, the Weasleys…

Somehow, they were all connected.

It was time to pay another visit to Hestia.

"Mister Black!"

He stopped again, irritation momentarily overtaking his thoughts. He composed himself and turned, once again, quirking an eyebrow.

It was another witch, apparently returning from her break. Her nametag read "Doris."

"So sorry, Mister Black," the witch said breathlessly, her cheeks pinking as she looked him up and down. "It's just, is that werewolf bothering you again?"

"What?" He asked blankly, ignoring the reflexive need to pick a fight with her for using the word 'werewolf' so spitefully. _Ah, Moony._ How long had it been?

"—Because you could file a restraining order, we could send someone to—"

"Sorry, what are you talking about?" He interrupted her pleasantly.

"Oh," Doris said, looking quite out of breath. "The werewolf. The professor? He was in here the other day spouting off all sorts of accusations, saying you'd been kidnapped or some rot—"

"Was he now?" He asked, his gaze sharpening. Huh. He'd rather been hoping he could make an ally out of Remus.

"Really, he shouldn't be bothering you like that," The witch hurried to assure him, looking distressed. "We can take care of it."

"No need," he said, flashing her Sirius's small, mean grin. "I can take care of it. We are, after all, old friends."

* * *

His vision was completely black. Harry cocked his head, listening carefully to the buzzing sound, and then lunged hard, reaching for it—

His fingers just barely brushed the wings of the snitch before it was gone, zipping out of his reach.

"Damn it," He swore, reaching for the blindfold tied around his eyes, only for someone (one of the Twins, probably), to shoot what he'd come to know was a stinging hex at one of his hands.

"Ouch," he said sullenly, but dropped his hand anyway, stifling a yawn. _Merlin,_ was it even light out yet? It certainly hadn't been when he'd been woken at four a.m. to a bucket of ice-cold water to the face, courtesy of a manically-grinning Oliver Wood and the Twins, accompanied by Ginny and a sheepish Ron.

"Careful!" It was Ginny's voice, now, sharp in warning as she rounded on his assailant. "He needs his hands for tonight."

"Oh, don't worry Ginny, your boyfriend will have plenty—"

"For the match, you dingus!" Ginny snapped.

"I agree," Wood (the bastard) butt in commandingly. "Easy with the stinging hexes, he's got to be able to catch tonight. Dursley, stop messing with the blindfold."

Harry glared at him in the safety of his blindfold.

"I don't understand," he complained. "It's not like I'll be wearing a blindfold during the match—"

"This is how McGonagall trained," Hermione's voice came loftily from the bleachers, where her nose was undoubtedly buried in several books.

"How do you even know that?" Ron's voice asked.

"I read her biography—"

"Her biography! When did you have time to read her biography!?"

"Last night, I needed a break from—"

Harry re-focused on the buzzing sound as they argued, Ginny and the Twins getting into it as Wood tried to get everyone to _be quiet so Harry could focus—_

Harry traced the snitch in his mind's eye as it weaved past the raised voices of his friends, cocking his head gently to keep the buzzing in line with his ear and—

He lunged forward, darting his hand out, quick as a viper, and plucked the snitch cleanly out of the air, nearly colliding with the body of the person in front of him.

He heard a startled breath and a rustle as the person in front of him turned. Strands of soft, long hair brushed against him with the breeze, and he recognized the hitch of breath as he straightened.

He dropped the snitch into the grass and traced the long hair up to her face, tucked it behind her ear, found her cheek.

He moved the pad of his thumb from her cheek, down, found the soft curve of her jaw, traced down to her chin, and moved up to her lips, which parted beneath his touch.

"Found you," he said softly, and then ducked down to replace his thumb with his mouth. She laughed into his kiss.

Ron made a retching noise and Harry, drawn reluctantly from his trance reached for his blindfold again and wrestled it off.

The sun had begun to rise in his period of darkness, and his eyes had to adjust for the sudden light. Fortunately, it was Ginny, and not one of the Twins, with her arms around his neck. He grinned at her.

"Dursley," Wood said, sounding exasperated.

"What," Harry sighed. "That was the last snitch, wasn't it?"

"Yes," Ginny said, removing her arms from his neck. "But Wood's right, you need to practice, Harry."

He sighed again. "Can we take a five-minute break?" He asked Wood.

Wood looked like he might combust, but at Ginny's quelling look, nodded tightly. "Fine," he said, plopping himself on the ground. "We'll take five to chat about strategy."

Harry grabbed his water bottle and took a sip, looking at the five discarded snitches that he'd caught. "It was easier when all of you were talking," He said thoughtfully. "I felt like I could isolate it amongst your voices, feel it weaving around you guys."

"That's what McGonagall found too."

Harry looked up and saw Hermione making her way over, arms laden with books. "She'd always pay special attention to players' voices during warm-ups and when they shook hands before a match. You've also got to be careful, because sometimes players or spectators will wear shiny jewelry."

"Well, it'll be loud on the pitch," Oliver said, drumming his fingers on his thigh, his brow creased. "And there'll be bludgers, too—"

Just then an owl swooped towards them from the sky. Wood broke off mid-sentence when it dropped a letter into his lap before winging away.

Wood frowned, opening the letter. "Angelina wants help setting up," he said after a moment.

"Now?" Harry asked.

Oliver hummed in assent, chewing brutally on his lip. "Ginny, can you and the Twins—?"

Ginny nodded immediately, pecking Harry on the cheek. After some childish bickering, Ginny managed to wrestle the two boys together by their sweaty collars, and they disapparated.

"Alright, break's over," Wood made to get to his feet, using one hand to lever himself up. "Harry, are you—" Wood's arm abruptly gave, and he nearly toppled onto his face.

"Merlin, mate," Ron said, steadying him.

"Are you alright?" Hermione asked, looking troubled.

Wood's face was paper-white as he locked eyes with Harry.

"Oliver," Harry said lowly.

Wood stared at him, then gave a jerky, abortive nod, got to his feet properly, and strode away, hands jammed in his pockets.

"What was that about?" Ron asked, staring after him in confusion.

Harry grimaced in answer, then got up and followed after Wood. "What are you going to do?" He asked. "I can talk to Hermione, see if we can get you an appointment with a muggle doctor this week—"

"No," Oliver said tightly. "I— I think I need to see the team healer."

"But what about your contract—?"

"I'll just say I hurt it practicing," Oliver said grimly.

"Okay," Harry said, looking up at him. "I promise I'll practice harder. You should go—"

"No, don't work yourself too hard, take it easy," Oliver said. He looked torn. "You want to save your energy for tonight. Run some basic drills with Weasley, okay? Then get in a good nap."

"Yeah, okay," Harry said. "Hope it goes well," he gestured uselessly. "You know, with your hand."

"Eat lots of carbs," Oliver ordered, clutching his bad wrist and glaring at him even as he turned on the spot. "And stretch!"


End file.
